


Reaching Back

by stympahalides



Series: Roll the Bones [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bathing/Washing, Gore, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Multi, Other, Pining, Poison, Pre-Geraskefer, Pre-Relationship, Recreational Drug Use, Self-Indulgent, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:08:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 30
Words: 105,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27107719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stympahalides/pseuds/stympahalides
Summary: A look into how Geralt and Jaskier's relationship developed over twenty-two years.~*~He indulges himself a little and peeks over at Geralt. A witcher- a witcher, real and so close and not actually resembling the stories much at all, other than in sheer impressiveness- intently focused on his task. Jaskier curls in his lips, chews thoughtfully. Knows that Geralt wouldn’t want him to say he’s beautiful. Wouldn’t want a bard to gawk at him, doting, taking in how he nearly glows, caught between the light of their flickering campfire and the moon overhead. Regardless of how true it is.
Series: Roll the Bones [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1978561
Comments: 82
Kudos: 106





	1. Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Adrianne Kalfopoulou’s “Poem in Pieces, a Log,” A History of Too Much.  
> My timeline is vague but if you’re here you’re used to that.  
> I mix lore and canon from the show, books, and games because at some point during my rapid consumption of any Witcher thing I could reach, it all jumbled together and I can’t separate it anymore.  
> Also, I feel like I should warn that when I say slow burn, I mean such a slow burn, the slowest burn. Over a hundred thousand words of slow burn. So slow, you hardly notice the burn until the sequels.

_“_ Caliban: Art thou afeard?  
Stephano: No, Monster, not I.” _  
―_ **William Shakespeare** ** _, The_** ** _Tempest_**

As a romantic, Jaskier realizes and fully believes in the importance of first meetings.

The timing could have been better. He’s performing a song that he’s not particularly proud of; it’s better suited for late nights at taverns, when the crowd is a little looser and frothy with drink. In the bright light of lunchtime, the tavern-goers demonstrate their disapproval by tossing bread at him, which he kneels to collect, happy enough that his misjudgment wrought such spoils.

Of course, there’s a reason he doesn’t hesitate to drop to the floor and gather up the bread. There’s a reason his stomach has reached a near-painful hollowness, and a reason he snaps back at his insulters but waves away his own dignity for a stale meal. He has no coin, and it’s because most of his songs are weak. Meaningless, coreless. Something to fill the quiet without sticking. No one is singing his songs, no one knows his name.

Jaskier is fresh from Oxenfurt, traveling along somewhat aimlessly, trying to figure out what, exactly, he wants to do. What songs he wants to sing, and how he hopes to be remembered. Because he does badly want to be remembered.

While he works this out, he trails around entertaining with well-known and loved songs heard across all taverns, with bits and pieces of his own compositions thrown in, receiving mixed reactions. Some kind, most not.

So, maybe the timing isn’t so bad after all.

Jaskier sees the stony man in the corner and is almost instantly lost for him. Good looking and clearly strong. His white hair is tangled and windswept, half tied back and long enough to fall over his broad shoulders. He is dressed all in black leather and studded armor. His gloved hands are settled on his lap, unmoving. The little natural light in the tavern fades towards him, and there’s poetry in a man who hides in the shadows but is unable to completely evade the midday sun.

An untouched ale waits on the table before him, and while his focus seems intent on it, eyes fixed on the rim as if the tankard is speaking, he doesn’t hold it or take a sip.

The man is a little too brooding for an ordinary farmer or shopkeeper. Jaskier would wager he isn’t even from Posada, seeing how he stands out amongst the locals. Regular bandits and vagabonds don’t dress like that, either, and he’s well-disguised if he’s any sort of traveling noble. A fighter, then, or even an exiled knight. That has such an air of romance that Jaskier can’t help but approach.

“I love the way you just…sit in the corner and brood.”

“I’m here to drink alone.”

Rude, but that often comes paired with the brooding types, so Jaskier shrugs it off. Ignores how obvious it is that the man wants him to go away. The withering expression. He pretends that he isn’t nervous because he shouldn’t be, so he won’t be. Jaskier is decidedly slick, not awkward.

Jaskier moves lightly and sits across from the man. He leans into the table eagerly; smiles in a way he hopes is charming and not just impish. He’s been working on being less impish. The man’s mouth tightens as Jaskier talks, already thin patience clearly waning the longer it goes on. But then, as if unable to help himself, he does speak. Corrections. It’s not the sort of feedback Jaskier is used to because regular people just want the story, and Jaskier is only saying what he’s heard, anyway, which means that it’s fairly common knowledge. Or, he thought so.

Once he really looks at the man and realizes that he is not just a man, but the witcher Geralt of Rivia, the infamous Butcher of Blaviken, he becomes slightly more career-motivated. It only reduces the romantic aspect of their meeting a little, and, frankly, Jaskier would have written at least one song about the man anyway. It’s just less about fucking now, more about heroics.

When Jaskier first set out on his own, it was because he wanted to really do something. Sing songs about what he saw and felt and knew. Real experiences, genuine emotions and sensations that he hoped to describe so poignantly because they would be his own. He started off with a full belly, a wide smile and a horse, and now he only has one of those things. There is much that he used to have and now does not. And he doesn’t know if what he is doing now is working, or if it’s good at all or even something he wants, so he’s been a little lost. A little nervous.

And now here, _here_ is a man he can work with. A scary story he can cast in gold, a butcher turned into a hero. A project, for now, until something better comes along.

(Nothing better will come along, because there is nothing better than this.)

So, he latches on.

Jaskier takes the time to really study Geralt as they make their way to find this non-existent devil. He’s completely different in the sunlight. His armor is still black, but now Jaskier can see the scuff marks and grime. His hair is tangled but lovely, suddenly much brighter under the sun, where Jaskier can see that it isn’t just stark white, but has strands of silver and darker gray. Geralt has frown lines, which isn’t surprising, and he also has a few pale scars that stand out more obviously now, one arcing above his brow and more curved at the sharp angle of his chin. Barely noticeable unless you stand close and really look.

In his eagerness, Jaskier doesn’t pick up on Geralt’s rising anger, nor that he isn’t just kind of annoyed, but very, very annoyed. It’s not the first time anyone has punched the bard, but it must be the hardest. A witcher punch, right in the gut. Surely restrained but still. It makes him spit and putter as he tumbles gracelessly to the ground and groans feebly. Jaskier does his best to laugh it off, but it’s a wrenching pain and he feels like his guts have been misplaced closer to his spine.

And then the devil is no devil, but acts devilishly, and Jaskier wakes up with an aching head, tied to what he quickly realizes is an unconscious Geralt. He exhales slowly. There’s a creeping feeling in his skin and an anxiety that he hurries to control. The witcher is alive; Jaskier can hear his even breathing and feel Geralt’s ribs expand against his back. He rests against Geralt for a moment, seeking reassurance in the pace of his breathing.

Jaskier twitches his hands, trying to relieve his wrists from the chafe of their achingly tight bindings. As he fidgets, his fingers bump into Geralt’s and he pinches at the gloved hands uselessly, whispering the other man’s name and hoping that he’ll wake up.

When Geralt does wake, it’s with a grunt, his knuckles bumping against Jaskier’s, and then he starts thrashing around like a bull. The jostling sends a wave of pain through Jaskier’s skull and he presses back against Geralt, hoping he’ll be still. It turns out not to matter.

The confrontation with the elves ends with a collection of bruises, a new lute and some perspective. Jaskier feels for them, is angry about the lessons he’s been taught, the opinions drilled into his head as if they were clear facts. Of course they’re evil, _here_ are the heroes and _there_ are the villains. Love and hate, all carefully assigned.

Jaskier thinks about this as they leave, blessedly untied and sent on their way with mixed expressions of frustration and hope from their captors. He’s wobbly on his feet but manages to keep up with Geralt as he makes sure his horse (Roach, apparently, and Jaskier is so sure there’s a story in that, he would salivate if his mouth wasn’t bone dry), graciously returned, is unharmed, and then mounts her. Jaskier doesn’t ask for a ride this time, though his need for it has only increased.

They take the trail moving away from Posada, and Jaskier looks around, catches the unhappy looks Geralt keeps shooting at him, and thinks _please don’t go, please don’t leave me here_. He’s walking stiffly, feeling very battered, and not cherishing the idea of making his way to the next town on his own.

Geralt huffs, announces that it’s time for them to part, and Jaskier, his understanding of the world starting to tremble beneath him, so frightfully and wonderfully untethered and sent flailing to sea without knowing how to swim, only wants to see more, and learn more and do more. Stand with this witcher who he’s sure will take him to parts of the Continent he would never traverse on his own, down the dark alleys and between the trees of late-night forests, into the dens of monsters and bellies of beasts, to see the evil of creatures and of humans.

Jaskier wants to see, wants to know. Touch and feel and then press it all into a story. Into songs.

“Look, I promised to change the public’s tune about you. At least allow me to try,” he says, grinning even though his body hurts and the taste of blood is still coppery on his tongue. 

Geralt had been willing to die for him. Maybe not _for_ him, actually. Not in a personal ‘I care about you’ way, but like some sort of exchange. Let the bard go, I’ll stay. Freely given, though Jaskier certainly hasn’t earned it, hasn’t won it or shown Geralt that it is deserved. Jaskier is not a good man, not really. But he thinks he sees one in this Butcher.

Not waiting for an answer, Jaskier pretends the suggestion to split was never made and starts doing what he always does, which is sing, and re-sing, and adjust until he spins the words and rhythm and all of it together to make a song. _The_ song, it turns out. Geralt comments once or twice about inaccuracies, his frustration clear.

Jaskier waves him off, says, “I’m working on _your_ reputation, not theirs. The song is about you, Witcher.”

(Later, he does write a song about Silver Towers and the Edge of the World, hidden under layers of metaphor. He hopes that somehow the tune gets to Filavandrel and Torque and Toruviel and they laugh at how the humans repeat the song, ignorantly singing their praises.)

Eventually, the witcher goes silent, maybe trying to ignore Jaskier or actually enjoying the music to some degree. Hard to know. Impossible to know; the man’s expression stays still as clay, a statue on horseback, hardly ticking between a variety of glowers. A shiver of interest, Jaskier decides to learn him, to pick apart the many micro expressions and see between the lines, hear what isn’t said and teach himself to distinguish between this hum and that one. Assuming he’s given the time.

Geralt doesn’t say anything more about separating, at least for now. Jaskier stays optimistic. Tries to.

The issue is that Geralt continues to make a face at him. A confused, frustrated, furrowed-brow face. Like he can’t figure out what the hell Jaskier is doing here. Jaskier isn’t dumb; he realizes that most people wouldn’t tail along with someone whose reputation is so violent and sullied as Geralt’s, and definitely wouldn’t immediately start agitating him. But that’s their loss, as far as Jaskier is concerned, and he just knows that this is where he belongs right now.

Geralt will just have to get used to the bard being around. Unless, of course, he doesn’t.

Jaskier tries to ignore the looks the witcher keeps aiming at him, like little pinpricks on the back of his neck, and he hopes that Geralt doesn’t take off or disappear. Jaskier keeps waiting for him to just tap, tap, tap his feet on the horse’s side and bolt away, leaving Jaskier alone on the trail, lute in hand and song cut short in his throat as he watches Geralt go. Alone again.

He waits for it, nerves tingling down his spine in a sensation not dissimilar to when he was a boy at temple school and would tilt his chair back to see how far he could go before falling. Or getting caught, more likely, though both endings resulted in caning and a stern word.

They continue walking until the yellow fields fade to a dusty blue under the setting sun. Jaskier’s feet hurt, like stinging nettles have gathered along the arches, and he’s absolutely parched. He’s used to traveling on foot by now but he’s also used to taking periodic breaks, spreading out in knolls and along tree lines or just off the road for a quick sit down or nap.

Then, thankfully, Geralt moves off into the trees. The abrupt shift is momentarily confusing, but Jaskier shakes it off and quickly follows through the twisting woods until he is lead to a clearing. Geralt ties Roach to a tree with an affectionate pat before he wordlessly starts to set up camp. Jaskier watches.

Another issue: Jaskier doesn’t have what is required for camping. No bed roll, no waterskin or flask, no sort of tent or small tools for cooking and starting a fire. Or actually much of anything other than a lute and what he wears.

He says, “I’ll collect some firewood,” to Geralt’s back, hoping to show how useful he can be while breaking up his own sense of being very out of place. Geralt only grunts at him, which Jaskier takes as an affirmation. He shuffles tiredly around to do his job without straying so far away that he won’t know if Geralt takes the opportunity to run off or that Jaskier will get disoriented and lost.

He comes back and shows his collection to Geralt, who inspects the wood distrustfully. Jaskier isn’t sure if Geralt thinks he’s so stupid he can’t tell what wood is dry enough and the right size for a fire, or if he’s just generally negativistic.

“I’m not sure my wood has ever been so thoroughly examined,” Jaskier hums, tapping Geralt in the side with his elbow. This doesn’t earn him a smile or even the acknowledgment that he’s spoken. Geralt just moves away from him. Fair enough. Not everyone enjoys that brand of humor.

Apparently finding it up to par, Geralt takes the wood from Jaskier’s hands and sets it up while Jaskier watches. He studies most of what Geralt does around camp and tries to learn. He’s not making a great impression right now, but he’ll be better next time. More helpful.

Wood in place, Geralt tips back into a crouch and gives his work a final once-over before gesturing with his hand, fingers twisted almost artfully. Fire erupts upwards with a crackle, and Jaskier almost throws himself back in shock. He manages to stay sitting, however, and only a brief yelp of awe escapes him. It’s the closest Geralt gets to smiling, and Jaskier thinks it might be worth his expense.

“What was that?” he asks, excitement rolling down his spine. The fire has calmed since its summoning and seems to behave as any other fire Jaskier has known.

Geralt only says, “Igni,” apparently deciding that this serves as an adequate explanation.

It’s night by the time everything is set up. Sitting on the ground, watching Geralt, Jaskier tries to process that he is camping with a witcher- something he doesn’t think he’s heard anyone else claim.

Every part of his body hurts, especially the cut at his forehead from the small metal ball, the terrible wheezing ache in his chest from the swift elven kick he took there earlier, and his stomach, where the witcher’s own fist has certainly left a bruise.

There’s a silver pot over the fire, boiling water Geralt had disappeared to collect. Jaskier supposes he can’t summon water the way he does fire, which seems unfortunate. Geralt doesn’t add anything to it, so Jaskier figures it’s for the witcher’s waterskin.

Geralt sits on the opposite side of the fire, focused on the jerky he is eating and not offering to divide. Roach is tied up in an area within view and running distance, dining on grass and getting her fill. For some time, the only sound is her and Geralt chewing. It’s a slow, accidental torture for Jaskier, who lost his bread somewhere along the way and is going without.

Jaskier has never been afraid to ask for anything. Fortune favors the bold, after all. And he is feeling well and truly horrible right now.

Unable to take it anymore, he licks his lips and says, “Uh, Geralt?” then waits until he has the witcher’s attention, reluctantly given, to continue. “Do you think, as the day has been long and…well, I am currently empty-handed, that I could have—”

The beginning of his longwinded speech is interrupted by a frustrated noise before the witcher lobs his waterskin at him. Jaskier catches it clumsily, arms gathered up towards his chest, stretching his injuries in a way that makes him gasp. Taking pity, Geralt breaks off a chunk of jerky and hands it over with more care.

Jaskier takes a few gulps of water before passing it back, aware enough to not press his luck, and moans maybe a bit too lasciviously. Geralt’s expression is pinched before he refocuses on his meal. Jaskier thanks him before starting on the jerky

Once they’re both done eating, Jaskier realizes that in all this mess he never actually told Geralt his name. He chuckles at himself, though the lapse is definitely unlike him and probably speaks to how ridiculous the day has been. Geralt glances up at the noise with an look that clearly pins Jaskier as no better than a cricket that won’t cease its chirping outside his bedroom window. 

Jaskier hastily says, “I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced.”

Geralt’s eyes flicker, and maybe he hadn’t realized that he didn’t know the bard’s name, or maybe it’s irritation. Jaskier hasn’t learned to read his monosyllabic speech and miniscule facial expressions yet.

He sits up a little straighter, holds out his hand. “Jaskier,” he says. It’s simple and, he hopes, memorable. He’s not used to it yet, but loves it because he chose it, because he named himself. He doesn’t stumble anymore and nearly say Julian Alfred Pankratz in the rushed _please don’t ask_ way he used to.

Geralt doesn’t take his outstretched hand. Just hums, and then falls back into silence.

The quiet is more of a challenge than anything else. It’s going to drive Jaskier up the wall. He tried to get the other man to talk, asked questions all the way along the trail, wanting to know about his new travel companion and collect some information for his song. The effort received next to nothing.

Now, Jaskier fills the silence on his own. He tunes the new lute, getting used to the feel of it in his hands, lamenting the loss of his old instrument but already certain he’ll cherish this one. He rambles almost mindlessly, only half-aware of what he’s saying to the witcher, who seems to only be quarter-listening anyway.

As Jaskier talks, Geralt keeps busy. He carefully transfers the cooled water to his waterskin, glancing around as if to offer what remains to Jaskier before realizing that the bard isn’t simply out of water, but doesn’t have supplies to carry it. With a derisive snort, he sets the pot aside and moves to care for Roach.

Tired of talking to himself, Jaskier finishes tuning and starts to play in earnest. He hums, plucks and strums away, quickly departing from Toss a Coin to the traditional songs he learned in school and then lullabies his nanny used to sing to him.

He indulges himself a little and peeks over at Geralt. A witcher- a witcher, real and so close and not actually resembling the stories much at all, other than in sheer impressiveness- intently focused on his task. Jaskier curls in his lips, chews thoughtfully. Knows that Geralt wouldn’t want him to say he’s beautiful. Wouldn’t want a bard to gawk at him, doting, taking in how he nearly glows, caught between the light of their flickering campfire and the moon overhead. Regardless of how true it is.

So Jaskier keeps his lips sealed. He doesn’t say, doesn’t say, doesn’t say. Just quietly admires, working away at his lute, letting his eyes roam down the firm lines of Geralt’s body, his scuffed armor, the way his hair falls forward to hide his face, and the pale scars scattered over him, some visible, others tucked away and hidden.

This goes on for some time before Geralt loses his patience.

“Go to sleep, bard,” he says a little harshly.

Jaskier blinks, like rising from a fog, and then gently puts his lute away. He makes sure it’s safe and secure, then peels off his doublet and molds it into a pillow. Satisfied with its shape, he lies back and shuffles around in the grass until he finds a position that doesn’t bother his new injuries.

“Sweet dreams, Geralt.” Jaskier starts to close his eyes when he notices that the witcher is staring at him rather intently, the firelight flickering around his face yet somehow darkening his expression. Jaskier sits up a little, palms flat on the ground. “Or…no?”

“What are you doing?” Geralt grumbles. Jaskier swallows, feeling silly for lying on his side while the monster hunter glares down at him.

“You said go to sleep?” Maybe there is some kind of camping ritual he missed, or an odd witcher custom that he’s fucked up. It has to be something bad to earn him such a glower.

The silence stretches on while Geralt continues to stare at him, jaw clenched. Exhaustion has already crept over Jaskier and he’s ready to abandon this long, overwhelming day and sleep. He smooths a hand over his face. “You’re going to have to say what’s on your mind, Geralt, because I haven’t learned how to read it just yet.”

Geralt says, “Are you really this ill-suited for travel?”

Jaskier thinks about Geralt’s bedroll, about himself bundled in the grass and grateful that it isn’t yet cold enough that he couldn’t spare his doublet for a pillow, and is very concerned about being left behind before morning.

“I parted with most of my belongings some time ago,” he says, hoping to suggest that he as a person is very capable, if his supplies are not.

Geralt frowns at him for a moment longer, then returns his attention to Roach, who he starts to brush. He doesn’t offer his own bedroll. Jaskier doesn’t expect him to.

He reclines onto his back again and listens to the crackling fire and the steady rhythm of brush through horsehair. Just before he manages to slip into dreams about the nanny he hasn’t seen in years and the warm meals of home, Jaskier thinks he hears the witcher murmur quietly. So quietly that Jaskier has no idea what is being said. It nearly pulls him back to consciousness with the surprised hope that Geralt has experienced a change of heart and is going to talk to him. Then he realizes that the words are for someone else. Based on how Geralt clicks his tongue, he’s conversing with the horse.

Amused and pleased to witness the witcher’s softness, Jaskier gives in to the tug of sleep.

The sun is barely peaking over the horizon when Jaskier wakes up. Geralt, magically, has not left him, though the camp has been packed away around his body. Jaskier is damp from dew and stiff from the beating he took, but still springs to his feet to make sure his instrument is undamaged.

And, just like that, without understanding why he’s allowed to follow, and not letting himself question it or care, Jaskier begins his days as The Witcher’s Bard. 


	2. Beginning

Jaskier is certain that Geralt hates him. Undoubtedly.

It doesn’t make sense that Geralt doesn’t leave, doesn’t pick up speed and abandon Jaskier on the side of the road when he easily could, doesn’t sneak away when Jaskier goes to sleep. Jaskier’s best guess is that Geralt- who has already proven himself to be significantly less cruel than the stories suggest, just grumpy and rude and coarse- doesn’t think that Jaskier could survive if he was deserted in the middle of nowhere and doesn’t want that on his conscience. Jaskier figures it’s to his advantage to not correct him, unflattering as it may be. 

Still, Geralt makes it no secret that he doesn’t want Jaskier around.

While Geralt has not struck him since the time in Posada, he finds other ways to express his agitation. He occasionally throws something to Jaskier too aggressively and often aimed in a way that the bard either gets bonked by the projectile or has to flail around like a fool to catch it. He definitely slammed his foot down on top of Jaskier’s intentionally and forcefully when Jaskier started talking over him during negotiations with an alderman, though Jaskier did manage to get him better pay. Now and then, Jaskier loses himself to his tactile nature and will lean on Geralt, or rest his hands on him or just press against him when they sit together, and Geralt shoves him away with a stern look of warning. The witcher has a habit of walking away from Jaskier when he’s talking, or tells him, rather venomously, to shut up. He doesn’t take enough breaks on the road, or let Jaskier ride Roach, and he hasn’t shared water or food with him since the first time.

They stay in separate rooms when they elect to sleep at an inn, and Jaskier spends the whole night with his nerves jolting him awake until he rises early in the morning, rushing to make sure the witcher hasn’t run out on him.

It’s uncomfortable and anxiety-inducing for sure, but manageable. And worth it. Jaskier is no stranger to being unwanted, so he can get past the barbed comments and disdain fairly easily. And he’s genuinely enjoying his experience, even though he isn’t seeing much.

Geralt goes on his hunts and returns without fail, not because Jaskier is waiting for him, but for his pay. Depending on how gross he is afterwards, he either goes for a bath or settles in for a meal and drink. Jaskier has started paying for these rituals, noticing how it seems to soften the witcher just a bit, or at least makes him feel obligated. 

And it’s easier to get into Geralt’s room when he can follow whoever is delivering water for the tub.

Jaskier watches Geralt relax and come down from the rush of the kill, and then starts plying him for the story, gradually seeking out more detailed information. Geralt turns out to be a poor storyteller, but that isn’t his job. He has a wealth of knowledge. Millions of facts about whatever creature Jaskier names, though he’s stingy with them like he thinks Jaskier is going to try and steal his job or sell trade secrets, though neither is likely. Or plausible.

After prying what he can from Geralt, Jaskier works on his songs. Not every story gets its own song, but Jaskier definitely tries. Each night ends with him fiddling with chords and rhymes.

Strangely, as much as Geralt complains about how irritating Jaskier is, he doesn’t seem to mind when they’re out on the road and Jaskier trails behind with his lute, humming nonsense and pausing with one eye on the slowly retreating witcher so he can scribble in his notes, the book propped on his thigh or left forearm, before he has to rush to close the growing distance.

If Jaskier asks which rhyme is better or whether he prefers this chord sequence or that one, Geralt will roll his eyes and huff, or make a snide comment. But he doesn’t ask him to stop.

Jaskier continues to perform at each town. As his repertoire expands, he is pelted with food less and actually starts to get compliments and requests thrown his way. It makes him preen to be appreciated like this, to be listened to.

At least for the beginning of his set.

In the first months, Jaskier goes in with a lulling strategy. He begins with a few classics, some traditional drinking songs that get people listening, to put them in good cheer. One or two raunchy tunes, depending on the crowd. He prances around the room or stands on any available stage, his smile wide and face flushed. Then, carefully maintaining his lighthearted energy, he’ll start up on one of his Geralt Songs.

This is often met with resistance. Sometimes mild violence and screaming.

It turns out that supporting witchers is nearly as appreciated as being a witcher, and so a lot of the disdain that people are too cowardly to dispense on Geralt is sent instead to Jaskier. This means that sometimes when he is singing Geralt’s praises, winding around the tables when there is no stage, he gets tripped or slapped or grabbed. Jaskier does his best to sing through it and quickly move to a different part of the room, and he purposefully doesn’t look at Geralt because he doesn’t want to deal with whatever faces he’s making.

Geralt remains seated, arms across his chest and mouth in a thin line. When he does rise it’s not to jump to Jaskier’s defense but to leave. Depending on the time, he might slip away and do some shopping. Or, to Jaskier’s surprise, he’ll go to a brothel (though, he doesn’t know why it surprises him that such an animalistic man enjoys the more carnal pleasures). Mostly, he just goes to his room and settles in for the night.

Jaskier grits his teeth and powers through, avoiding projectiles and only occasionally snapping back. By the end of his set, he’s usually ruffled and dripping with someone else’s drink.

On one occasion, he isn’t even performing.

They’re in a small, muddy town circled by farmland. Modest and gritty, but all-around not unpleasant. Jaskier expects that they’ll leave Roach at the stables then seek out rooms, a process that Jaskier finds endlessly amusing. Geralt inevitably growls at the stablehand, no matter how old and experienced, with a stern warning that the horse _will_ be properly looked after. Clarification on the unspoken threat is rarely sought out, and Roach never comes to any harm.

But Geralt keeps hold of the reins and starts leading them through the town. They pass a few stores, not stopping for their usual supplies. Knowing that there will be no explanation if he doesn’t seek one out, Jaskier speeds up to stand beside Geralt, who doesn’t spare him a glance.

“Where are we going?” Jaskier asks. They’ve gone a bit beyond the main road by now and are trudging past tiny, tightly-packed homes. Jaskier wonders if they’re going to visit an old friend, and the idea that Geralt is going to introduce him to someone, or even that he has old friends to meet with, perks up his interest.

“There’s an herbalist here.” Geralt studies each door, apparently looking for a sign or marker.

“Alright,” Jaskier hums, and, knowing better than to wait, continues, “what for?”

Geralt lets out a long-suffering sigh, as if explaining himself is the greatest hassle of his life. Jaskier is about to repeat his question when Geralt finally speaks up, talking through his teeth and walking faster, like he wants to tire Jaskier out.

“I need ingredients. For my potions.”

Jaskier thinks of the little bottles carefully tucked away in Geralt’s bags. He plucks out certain ones before a hunt, though Jaskier doesn’t know what they do, and sometimes has to swallow one down after. One time, he poured half of a clear bottle out directly onto a deep gash on his forearm and it bubbled up in a smelly foam. It must have hurt, but Geralt barely flinched.

Jaskier is also fairly certain that when Geralt plucks flowers or plants up in the woods he gives the same explanation, glaring at any suggestion that he might be picking flowers for the joy of nature. So, these must be herbs he can’t find along the way. Or he’s lying, though Jaskier doubts it.

They stop walking, then, and Jaskier looks at the moderately rundown house before them. Brown, with hanging plants attached to the thin beams added on to support the dangerously drooping roof. Jaskier would never identify this as an herbalist’s house on its own and wonders if Geralt has been here before or if there’s some sort of special smell or energy his enhanced senses pick up on.

Geralt ties Roach to a decrepit-looking gate. Jaskier looks at it dubiously, certain that if Roach decides it’s time to go, the frail, rotting wood will not put up a fight.

“Might as well leave her untethered,” he says.

Geralt turns on his with the same flinty look he gives stablehands, his mouth a thin line. Jaskier knows it’s supposed to be intimidating but can’t help his amusement. He also can’t help but adjust his posture to remind Geralt that he doesn’t actually tower over him.

“You’re not going in,” Geralt says, his tone meant to deter argument.

“Is something wrong?” Jaskier asks, glancing past him at the house. It’s doubtful that Geralt doesn’t want him to go in because of its poor structural integrity. He might urge Jaskier ahead if he thought it would collapse on him. It would certainly be an effective way to free himself from the bard’s company.

“No,” Geralt says, then starts to turn away. Jaskier catches his arm and is quickly shaken off, receiving a virulent look. “Jaskier, stay.” It’s similar enough to how someone speaks to an unruly pet that Jaskier half-expects him to click his tongue.

“Maybe _I_ need something from the herbalist,” he snaps, crossing his arms. Geralt’s amber eyes trace over him and a furrow appears between his brows.

“You don’t.” Geralt tries to turn away again, and again, Jaskier grabs him. This time Geralt growls and Jaskier waves him off, releasing him almost as soon as he makes contact. “ _Jaskier_.”

“Okay, I don’t,” Jaskier admits, dropping his arms with a shrug. “But I’ll go in anyway.”

Geralt presses his palm to his forehead and takes a second to breathe, then looks at his horse with tired exasperation. Jaskier, used to being exhausting, doesn’t feel any sympathy and waits impatiently for an explanation. When it doesn’t come, he hums and slips past Geralt, stepping up to the house. He raises his fist to knock on the door but is yanked back before he can make contact.

He glares at Geralt. “Now who’s being grabby?”

Geralt puts his gloved hands on Jaskier’s shoulder and moves him back towards Roach, who snorts when they approach, apparently not enjoying their back and forth.

“I need you to watch Roach,” he mumbles. His voice is low, and he gets close so Jaskier doesn’t need to strain to hear him. Jaskier can make out the pattern of Geralt’s irises, like tumbling sand dunes. It’s near hypnotic.

“Why?” Jaskier asks dazedly. Geralt gives him a little shake.

“Because horses have a habit of disappearing around here.” Geralt says it so seriously, so gravely, that Jaskier can’t stop himself from laughing. A full burst of laughter that rocks him forward into a slouch. Geralt has to step away to avoid getting headbutted.

“What?” Jaskier chuckles, then catches Geralt’s expression and valiantly attempts to stem his amusement. “Sorry, what?”

Geralt inhales, seems to brace himself. “Horse thieves.” He doesn’t elaborate. Instead he looks at Roach and watches her nose around the mud. His expression remains frustrated, but there’s a softness there. Concern. For his horse. Something warm spreads through Jaskier’s chest, and he presses his palm over his heart.

“You trust me to watch Roach?” Jaskier asks, putting no effort into hiding how pleased he is about this.

“I…” Geralt shakes his head. “It’s better to have someone watch her. And you’re here.” Jaskier doesn’t let this spoil his good mood, his grin only expanding.

“Of course I’ll watch her. Just don’t take long or we might run away together.”

Geralt makes a face at him but steps ahead to the house. He opens the door without knocking and then walks in unbidden. Jaskier wonders how he knows that’s allowed.

Despite Jaskier’s threat, Geralt does take his time. Jaskier doesn’t think the man has ever been so slow with his shopping, which either means that the herbalist is searching through a lot of stock or they’re working on more than just herbalism in there.

While he waits, Jaskier paces around Roach and watches the townspeople wander by, going into or stepping out of houses, chatting idly or daydreaming. It seems like the kind of town where every face is a familiar one. Jaskier wonders what that’s like, whether it’s reassuring or suffocating. He supposes that the effect might be similar to living in a house full of servants, but few of them had been very talkative, and he couldn’t say confidently that he knew many of them past recognition.

Two figures pass close enough that one of them bumps shoulders with Jaskier, so hard that he stumbles. He’s careful not to stumble into Roach, taking a few steps away from her and whipping around to shout after the men, only to find that they’re standing there, watching him.

Farm boys, for sure, their shirts worn and hands stained from hard work. Probably a few years older than Jaskier, but not by much. The one to the left is a human boulder, all broad and muscled. His ability to intimidate is only slightly diminished by his baby-face and floppy dark hair. The other one is leaner and has freckles all up his arms. There’s a pink scar on his chin, nearly faded.

The broader one sneers and says, “Pathetic,” while the other one spits.

For a confused moment, Jaskier looks at Roach and wonders if this is just some bloated reaction to him being an outsider, or if they’re trying to distract him from a third ally who is going to steal the horse. Roach stares back, her ears flickering. No third party in sight. Jaskier looks back at the men.

“Are you unwell?” He looks pointedly at the blob of spit where it’s starting to blend in with the mud. “I only ask because you seem to have lost control of your faculties.”

The freckled man laughs while the other one leans in closer to Jaskier, close enough that the bard can smell his sweat. Then, before Jaskier can react, he spits as well. It lands on his cheek, and Jaskier jerks back with a shout.

“What the fuck?” He yells, wiping the spit away with his sleeve. His face feels hot, and there’s nervous tension gathering at his shoulders, the kind that precedes violence. Jaskier really abhors senseless violence, particularly when it’s acted out on him. 

“Witcher’s bitch,” the freckled man says through his laughter, delighted. Jaskier glares at him and is certain he would have returned with a fine rebuttal if not for the thick hand suddenly clutching the front of his shirt. Fear spikes up Jaskier’s chest and he scrabbles with the arm as it yanks him in closer.

He grabs the belt of the man holding him and tugs as hard as he can, not really sure what he’s planning to do until the man, caught off guard, trips. Jaskier twists him around until he sits down hard, then pulls again and drags him over onto his side.

Jaskier laughs, then. This is enough; no one is really hurt anywhere but their pride. One man covered in mud, the other spit on. But the freckled man’s laughter cuts off and changes into a snarl. Jaskier turns towards the sound too slow, and a fist slams into his jaw. His cheek grates against his teeth and he tastes blood. Jaskier brings up a hand defensively but can’t stop the fist from landing another blow.

The man he brought to the ground scrambles up and grabs at Jaskier’s flailing arms, getting ahold of one but not the other, which strikes out randomly. Jaskier manages to claw his captor’s face while his own is struck once more.

Jaskier prepares for a fourth punch, or perhaps something worse, clenching his jaw in anticipation. Something growls behind him and, without warning, there is no one there to hold Jaskier up, no one restraining him. He stumbles, disoriented. Tries and fails to stop his adrenalin-led arms. They fling out at absent enemies and Jaskier loses his balance in the process. He nearly winds up in the mud, but a hand grabs at the back of his shirt and keeps him in place.

He blinks the blurriness of getting struck away and realizes that the farmers are retreating, no worse for wear but clearly frightened. Jaskier turns around to see that Geralt is the one holding his shirt.

“Bastards! Absolute pustule-ridden, hay-fed, arse-backwards pissants!” Jaskier tries to catch his breath, makes sure all his teeth are in place and that his nose is on straight.

Geralt blows air out in a heavy sigh, abruptly releasing the back of Jaskier’s shirt. He turns the bard around to face him, then does his own quick assessment. His fingers prod along Jaskier’s jaw painfully.

Jaskier bats his hand away. He’s calmed down a bit. Anger melts into embarrassment, maybe some guilt. “Well, this doesn’t naturally lend itself to song. Bard rescued from yokels by a witcher…doubt farmers will appreciate what I have to say.” 

“Hmm. A song about a feral bard would probably fare better than any song about me.”

Jaskier sighs. “It’s slow moving, but we’re making progress. I can tell. This doesn’t count because I didn’t even get the chance to bring out my lute. If they had waited just a moment longer, I could have explained your many virtues to them beautifully, and they would have realized—”

Jaskier is cut off when Geralt rubs at his cheek somewhat roughly with his thumb, face pinched. Jaskier already wiped the spit off, but there must be some residuum. Or Geralt can smell the other man on him. The idea is disgusting, and Jaskier groans.

“You’re doing more harm than good,” Geralt says very quietly.

Jaskier hawks some of his blood on the ground, trying to dispel the coppery taste, and glares at Geralt.

“Let me try,” He hisses. Like he hasn’t _been_ trying for months, like he isn’t getting used to the taste of his own blood. Geralt studies him for a second, face creased with a searching expression, and then nods. “Good. Now, I need a bath and a drink. Badly.”

*

Eventually, when Jaskier starts to sing Toss a Coin, a few of his listeners already seem to know it, and their eyes light up with joy instead of hate as they clap along to the chorus.

Then they all seem to know it, from town to town. And then the other songs about Geralt’s heroics gain traction as well, to the point that Jaskier sometimes catches other bards singing his songs, or passersby in the streets humming the tunes absentmindedly.

The first time it happens, Jaskier dances around the tavern tables, flashing the occasional grin to Geralt, expecting him to be stone faced as usual. He is surprised to find the witcher very still, his expression confused. Slightly alarmed.

Later, Jaskier buys them both drinks and sits beside Geralt. He leans close, arching a brow and letting himself be pleased.

He says, “There you go,” as if the whole endeavor took very little effort on his part and he never doubted at all.

Geralt moves his jaw, struggling with himself, and just says, “Yeah.”

Geralt is not suddenly loved, and he is still feared. But there is less vitriol, more trust and understanding that Geralt is separate but not evil. More often than not, Butcher of Blaviken is replaced by White Wolf.

And, for better or worse, Jaskier has cemented himself in Geralt’s life through songs that just might be timeless.


	3. Roach

Making friends with Roach is supposed to be a bridge to making friends with Geralt, and, hopefully, Jaskier getting off his feet every so often.

It doesn’t take long for Jaskier to realize that Roach is an important horse, at least to Geralt. As far as Jaskier can tell, she’s pretty ordinary. He doesn’t know much about horses- his lessons rarely went beyond riding and basic maintenance- but he can identify her as a bay mare. Geralt does a good job taking care of her and even seems to enjoy the process of brushing her hair and checking her shoes.

Lovely, strong and obedient, but not enchanted in any special witchery way that would make her stand out in a stable, beside Geralt’s tendency to leave a trophy or evidence of a completed hunt hanging off her saddle. Occasionally, she has been known to throw a kick at people with questionable motives, and she only sometimes tries to toss Geralt when something nefarious, such as a rotfiend, hops at them from a retired battlefield. So, Jaskier might call her particularly brave or desensitized.

It’s Geralt’s bond with the horse that makes her special. If Jaskier had to try to explain their relationship to anyone, he might say that Roach is more like Geralt’s very strong dog, or a helpful, quiet person. For all her benefits, she is treated less like a tool and more like a companion who is a conveniently capable means of travel. Certainly, she carries the witcher around, along with his bags and whatever terror he has to lug around. But he makes sure she is well fed and watered, that her coat is clean and brushed, and that she is not only healthy but apparently quite content. He looks at her fondly and strokes her neck, whispers in her ear or has lengthy one-sided conversations with her that he thinks Jaskier can’t hear. And he is very, very clear on the fact that no one else may touch her unless given explicit permission. Which is rare.

Roach’s origins are also something of a mystery. Jaskier can’t imagine that Geralt picked her up at an auction, though it’s also hard to imagine that he would steal her from someone who clearly needed a horse. Maybe she was taken from a noble, but Jaskier feels like it would be more of a story if that happened. More fuel for the mutant-hating fire. It’s possible, he supposes, that witchers have some sort of horse-breeding system so they can train and bond with them as colts.

Jaskier can guess that the relationship between man and horse came about because Geralt doesn’t usually have anyone else and has been lonely on his Path. This sad fact is enough to make Jaskier appreciate Roach and all her predecessors even more. 

(They have one very brief conversation about how many Roaches there have been. It starts with Jaskier asking why she’s named Roach, as the name isn’t particularly flattering as far as he can tell. Geralt shrugs, mumbles something about roach being a common fish, and says, “I’ve always named my horses Roach.” Jaskier blinks. “Do you go through a lot of horses?” A frown. “The average lifespan of a horse is about thirty years. And I ride them towards danger.” That’s where the explanation ends, because Jaskier needs some time to process and Geralt isn’t exactly forthcoming with further details.)

There’s no question that Jaskier is playing second fiddle to Roach. The fact that Jaskier can answer back seems more motivation for Geralt to ignore him in preference to talking to Roach, and he goes to great lengths to make sure she is cared for, whereas Jaskier is pretty sure if he collapsed in the middle of the road Geralt wouldn’t even slow his pace.

If Jaskier wants to stick around, it is clear that he’ll have to earn her approval, especially if he ever wants a turn riding her. The two main obstacles to this are Geralt’s possessiveness and Roach’s bad attitude. But Jaskier is nothing if not stubborn.

He begins by volunteering to take over some of Roach’s care. A few times, he suggests that he could brush her hair or lead her over to the grassy field to graze and enjoy the sun, citing, as vaguely as possible, his own training with horses. Each time, this earns him a hard look from Geralt and a firm no. Whenever Jaskier makes a move to so much as rest a hand on her side, the witcher grunts at him to back off and leave her be.

Geralt doesn’t budge, so Jaskier decides that he has to take his action directly to the horse herself.

Frustratingly, Roach isn’t much more accepting of his affection than her rider. She is nearly as thorny as Geralt, shifting uneasily when Jaskier approaches unbidden and even occasionally snapping with her teeth or giving him a dangerous look with those big brown eyes. Jaskier has been nipped in warning a few times, and has to watch where he steps to avoid getting kicked. There have been a few close calls, and, once, when he wasn’t fast enough, he limped away with an impressive bruise on his shin and the profound desire for a new leg.

When Geralt isn’t looking, he runs his hands over her coat, whispers to her kindly, lets her nibble treats from his hands. Her initial reluctance is obvious, sometimes painfully so, but she’s goaded by desire for sweets and the simple fact that she is getting used to his being around. Which is good, because walking next to a horse that wants to maim or murder him was starting to fray his nerves.

Geralt notices that Roach isn’t nearly as agitated around Jaskier anymore and shoots them both suspicious looks. There have been plenty of opportunities for Jaskier to have his moment in the sun and show Geralt what he’s been secretly working on. It should be simple to mosey over and rest a hand on Roach, to do so without asking and pretend like he hasn’t been setting up some sort of big reveal. But as time goes on, he can’t seem to make himself confess. If Geralt doesn’t want other people messing with his horse, it’s very possible that he’s not going to be impressed or amused by Jaskier charming her. Jaskier has realized with some horror that it’s very, very possible that Geralt, who has no qualms about threatening experienced stablehands or looky-loos, will just be angry that Jaskier went behind his back.

Jaskier really doesn’t want to fight over a horse, no matter how wonderful the horse is.

It’s maybe the weirdest secret Jaskier has ever had, and he’s trying to think of a way to explain to the witcher that he’s bonding with his horse so _maybe we can all be friends now, what do you say_ , when Roach herself exposes him.

The bard has been affected by nightmares since childhood. The kind that launch him awake with a gasp, covered in sweat and unable to stop his trembling. When he was young, the solution was as simple as crying until his nanny came to hold or hush him, but now that the issue has followed him into adulthood, he’s generally on his own, with the exception of a few generous and exceedingly kind bedmates.

It’s not such a big deal; he’s learned how to breathe through the abrupt waking and foggy-minded paranoia. The process of clearing the dread away and falling back asleep is almost second nature. On the occasion that he can’t recover on his own, it just means that he gets an early start to the day. That’s alright. Worse is when he catapults up with a yelp in someone else’s bed and scares the living daylights out of them. It’s a weird and unpleasant way to end a tryst, no doubt.

Luckily, Jaskier has managed to avoid these episodes in close proximity to Geralt. The witcher is already charged and ready for battle half the time, so Jaskier can’t imagine how he would react to the bard’s flailing. Definitely not with a soothing hug. The only nightmares Jaskier has had on the road with Geralt have been when they sleep in separate rooms at inns, and if Geralt can hear what’s going on in Jaskier’s room he probably doesn’t care much about random, late-night gasping and tumbling around. More likely, he does his best to block it out.

Jaskier’s luck ends now. It’s nearing Fall, and they’ve camped close enough to the road that the trees aren’t so dense and the light breeze carries a delicate floral scent. Perfect traveling weather, Jaskier thinks, though the temperature drops enough at night that he still has to bundle up. Their moods have been pleasant all day, and Geralt has laid his bedroll close enough to Jaskier’s that his broad back blocks some of the cool air.

Now, this means that when Jaskier rattles awake from a nightmare, thrashing heedlessly in his bedroll until he spills out into the dirt, fingers grappling for purchase, he comes back to himself facing Geralt.

He immediately quiets, holding his breath, and stares at the other man. Waits to see if he responds. Nothing, not even a twitch. After a long moment, Jaskier relaxes.

He honestly doesn’t fully understand witcher senses, but he knows that Geralt can see, smell and hear much better than humans, and so he’s happily surprised that his racket didn’t wake him up. Sometimes Geralt meditates instead of sleeping, and Jaskier isn’t sure which one is deeper and more difficult to startle the witcher from, but he’s thankful that whatever he’s doing now isn’t so easily disturbed. Jaskier doesn’t want to have to explain his night terrors to someone who isn’t obviously afraid of anything and likely doesn’t have the patience to be trailed by someone who isn’t even brave in their dreams.

Jaskier puts his hand on his chest and tries to wrangle his heartbeat, to calm down and go back to sleep, but finds that he can’t. The nightmare has already faded from his memory, but the sense of wrongness and danger remains, settled sickly under his skin.

He slowly gets to his feet, eyeing Geralt for signs of waking the entire time, and wonders what he can do to occupy himself without making noise. For an uncomfortable amount of time, Jaskier stands there and studies Geralt, hoping that he doesn’t blink awake and see him standing there like some creature from a horror story.

Strange to see Geralt so vulnerable. It’s doubtful that Jaskier could do much to hurt him even if he wanted to, but he still feels a flush of protectiveness through his chest at the sight. In sleep, the thin line of Geralt’s mouth relaxes, taking away some of his sharpness. He is resting on his back, one arm loose at his side while the other one is slung over his stomach. His hands are limp, but the fingers twitch every so often, like he might be fighting or gesturing in his dream. Jaskier is oddly grateful that he gets to see him like this, that he’s allowed to be around when Geralt is at ease, and that his presence isn’t enough to disrupt it.

It takes a while of tired staring for Jaskier to realize that his eyes are wet and he is actively crying. Embarrassed, he quickly turns his back to Geralt. It would be disturbing for the witcher to wake up and see how emotional Jaskier is being in the middle of the night for no clear reason, particularly when he’s looming over him. Jaskier smears his still-trembling hands across his face and shudders, feeling like a fool and willing his body to relax, to calm down and _please just do as I say, right now_.

He jolts at the sound of crunching to his right. Hands in fists, he twists around to see Roach watching him, her expression its usual blank stare. For some reason, seeing her makes his chin wobble and the tears start anew. His throat tightens around hitching breaths and he sniffs as silently as he can.

It’s true that Jaskier is loud and excitable, but he doesn’t usually cry much, which makes him think that this bout is an inconvenient product of stress and traveling too long. He clenches his jaw and presses a hand over his mouth to smother any noise, taking another few steps away from Geralt and facing the horse instead. Roach shifts her weight around and continues to stare at him.

Standing here crying and feeling sorry for himself is only going to make things worse. He’s going to get himself so worked up that he mopes around for the whole day, and then Geralt is going to suspect something or get annoyed. It’s not worth it. He needs something to do, and it can’t involve his lute. And Roach is right there, her dark eyes almost inviting, like she’s just waiting for him to get over himself and go to her.

Jaskier steps lightly. He glances back at Geralt once more before running his hands over Roach’s coat. Pleasantly soft, the firm muscles shifting under his touch. Roach doesn’t move to escape him or even imply that she’s uncomfortable. If anything, she seems pleased. He clicks his tongue at her, trying to project his gratitude and affection without speaking aloud. Roach butts her head forward, knocking his shoulder hard enough to move him but not hurt, before she starts running her lips over his pockets, looking for sweets.

He chuckles. “Hush, hush, you rowdy thing. It’s all in my bag.” She makes a displeased noise and Jaskier responds by scratching along the side of her neck and the spot on her chest she seems to favor, hoping to make up for his negligence. Her muzzle bumps into his chest several more times before she stops, raising her head to peek over his shoulder, perhaps looking a bit sheepish.

Then, from behind him, making Jaskier’s heart jump, Geralt asks, “What are you doing?”

Geralt doesn’t sound mad, though his voice is tense. Mostly he just seems confused, and it probably doesn’t help that Jaskier stays stubbornly facing Roach, with his back to Geralt. Jaskier wonders if he can excuse the wetness on his face as horse slobber, if his eyes are red and swollen or if he can still get away with this. Hard to say when he’s not sure horses make a habit of licking people’s faces. 

“Roach was…needy,” he answers meekly. Roach huffs, apparently not pleased about being used as a scapegoat. He shushes her and she returns with a baleful look. If Jaskier had to guess, he might call it a threat.

Geralt is silent for a moment, then hums. His boots crunch in the dirt as he approaches, and Jaskier carefully trains his eyes on Roach’s nose. It seems to take forever for Geralt to reach him, and then he stands right beside Jaskier without saying a word. Geralt puts his hand on Roach’s neck next to his and sets his gold eyes on Jaskier. Studying him.

Jaskier imagines this is what it’s like to be a pinioned butterfly. His instinct is to blabber through it, but his voice is hoarse enough to give everything away and he doesn’t want to have this conversation, doesn’t want Geralt to ask him if he’s alright and demand an explanation. Jaskier just wants to get over it and move on, to wake up in the morning and travel ahead to the next town, to find postings or track a rumor and go on another adventure. He would like very much to do all of this without addressing his weaknesses.

They stand like that for some time before Geralt grunts and turns back to camp, walking away without snapping at Jaskier to get away from his horse, and not commenting on the tears that he must have noticed, or how uncharacteristically quiet and tense the bard is.

Jaskier is no fool. He recognizes kindness. And permission.

He listens as Geralt goes to poke at the fire. Satisfied with that, he kicks around for a while, possibly checking around the borders of their camp to make sure it’s still secure, or trying to puzzle out why Jaskier is blubbering. Good luck to him and his quest, as Jaskier himself hardly knows.

Finished or giving up, Geralt shuffles back into his bedroll. Jaskier waits until he stops shifting around, then listens as his breath gradually evens out, though Jaskier knows he isn’t actually asleep. He’s never known the witcher to fall asleep that fast without the aid of potions or a long, difficult hunt.

Jaskier leans forward to kiss Roach on the nose. Rests his forehead there and breathes in her warm, smoky scent. He feels her smooth face and whispers, “Thank you,” against her fur, not sure if it’s intended for her, Geralt, or both.

He rubs her down for a while longer before retreating to fetch a treat from his bag, pretending along with Geralt that he is asleep and therefore that there are no consequences. He doesn’t bother to glance at the witcher before feeding Roach a sugar cube from his flat palm, murmuring encouragement and chuckling at the searching grab of her lips.

Jaskier doesn’t go back to his own bedroll until the sun is up and he groggily folds it up while organizing his things for the road. Geralt works around him, moving with the speed of someone who doesn’t need a lot of rest but got it anyway. Neither of them mentions what happened in the night, and Geralt isn’t obvious about checking over Roach, as if Jaskier might have planted something on her.

After this, Jaskier still doesn’t get to ride her, but Geralt doesn’t snap at him about touching her either. Geralt does, however, draw a firm line against letting the bard braid flowers into her forelock. He does let Jaskier hold her reins and take over some of her nightly routine, or take her to the stables and make sure the attendant will treat her properly, though Jaskier is significantly less intimidating than him.

It means something, Jaskier is sure, though he’s unwilling to name it just yet.


	4. Black Eyes

Initially, there is some contention about how to go about Jaskier’s chronicling. Geralt refuses to take him along to witness the action, even when Jaskier contends that he knows what he’s getting into and that they’ve already shared a near-death experience that didn’t scare him off, which clearly shows that he isn’t afraid. This argument doesn’t sooth Geralt the way it’s supposed to.

Their lives take on a sort of rhythm. Geralt leaves Jaskier at whatever inn they’re staying at, or at their campsite or the side of the road with Roach, and goes on his own to complete the contract. Then he returns and allows Jaskier to painstakingly pry the details of the hunt from him while Geralt cleans up and goes about his day.

When they’re at an inn, this usually means they talk while Geralt is bathing. Jaskier sits on the other side of a partition or with his back respectfully turned, taking notes in his little book, and listening while Geralt shifts around in the water. Jaskier doesn’t sneak a peek, no matter how interested and curious he is. Geralt didn’t exactly ask Jaskier to protect his modesty, but the one time he tried to go with him to the tub, absentmindedly following behind the witcher as they talked, only half aware that the other man was stripping as he was focused on scribbling down as much information as he could while Geralt spoke, Geralt stopped and absolutely glowered at him. Jaskier can take a hint.

If they aren’t fortunate enough to go straight to an inn, Jaskier does his questioning sporadically through the night, bumbling around camp, practically a slow-moving hazard, while Geralt sighs and corrects whatever Jaskier touches. He talks between bites and listens to Geralt tell his story over the campfire.

This arrangement does not last long. Jaskier quickly tires of pacing around and worrying that Geralt will either abandon him and disappear forever or won’t be able to return from a hunt because he’s hurt or dead. It only makes matters worse that after all this emotional and mental torture, Geralt is a completely shit storyteller who couldn’t find his way to details if Jaskier held his hand and led him to them.

Jaskier insists on getting closer. How can he write about something based on poor, second-hand information? The whole point of him being here is to experience things on his own. It takes a lot of persuasion on his part, then demanding. In the end, he has to agree that if anything happens to him while they’re out there, it isn’t Geralt’s responsibility, that Jaskier will stay back, won’t get in the way, and will always, always do as he is told.

Now, Jaskier gets to ask Geralt about monsters on the way to a hunt so he knows what to look out for. This way, Geralt is more likely to share, possibly as some sort of review for himself before heading into the fray, but more likely in an effort to get Jaskier to realize what they’re dealing with so he’s even less likely to trample into danger.

It’s pleasant weather the first time they venture out on a contract together. Jaskier folds up his doublet and stows it away, letting the breeze push on his thin undershirt. He sighs and stretches out his hands. Smiles at Geralt, who doesn’t return the smile but watches him for a few moments, eyes catching around his waist before he looks away. Gearing up for a lecture about proper armor and equipment, no doubt.

Geralt has been grumpy the whole walk. If Jaskier didn’t know any better, he’d say the witcher is nervous about taking him along. But Jaskier has already promised up and down that he’ll stay out of the way and not be a burden. He doesn’t want to get eaten by this creature. Or burned or stung or whatever it was Geralt warned him about.

Jaskier’s been a little too excited to pay attention. Usually he clings to whatever Geralt says about his hunts, digs for all the little details. But his blood is up and charged. He’s going to see it with his own eyes, now. They can talk about it later. And then next time, when he knows what to expect and some of the luster has worn off, Jaskier will be a better listener.

Somewhere along the road, Geralt pauses and tugs open one of Roach’s bags. The one he keeps his potions in, Jaskier knows. Geralt eyes Jaskier as he pulls out a bottle, then starts walking again with it in his palm. The liquid is a pearly color and it sloshes thickly. Probably not pleasant to swallow, though Jaskier has never tasted any of Geralt’s potions to know for sure.

“Which one is that?” Jaskier asks, slightly mesmerized by how shimmery the potion is.

Geralt shifts uncomfortably. A line forms in the space between his brows before he says, “It doesn’t matter- these potions are poisonous to humans.”

Definitely good to know. Geralt probably should have told him that before, since Jaskier knows where the potions are stored and has had unfettered access to them this whole time. Especially when Jaskier has a hard time denying his own curiosity. It doesn’t really touch on the point, though, which is that Jaskier should know about the potions, more so now that he’s going to walk into the thick of it.

“I don’t want to drink it; I want to know what it does,” Jaskier says. “What if you get hurt on a hunt and I need to get a specific—”

Geralt interrupts him, voice hard. “If I get hurt that badly, all you need to do is run.”

“Well, sure,” Jaskier says, not sure how sincerely. He doesn’t know what he would do in that situation, but the idea of leaving the witcher to die sits like a rock in his stomach and leaves him unsettled. Stowing these thoughts to ponder later, he says, “But I still think I should know. Just in case, Geralt.”

Geralt’s mouth pulls into a straight, displeased line and he shoots Jaskier a look. Whenever he makes that face at Jaskier- and this happens often- the bard wonders why Geralt hasn’t run out on him.

“I’ll tell you about the others later. This one,” Geralt shakes the bottle in his hand, bringing it close enough for Jaskier to see the tiny bubbles, “you’ll see.”

They walk for a bit longer before reaching the area that townsfolk described as the creature’s hunting grounds. There’s nothing prowling around, but there are scorch marks around the trees and odd chunks of carved out ground and missing branches. Jaskier studies this with open-mouthed interest, then watches Geralt putter around. He kicks at dirt mounds and scrapes his gloved fingers along old ash; brow furled like he’s doing some sort of calculation.

“What are you doing?” Jaskier whispers, following him around and trying to figure out what the other man is seeing that’s invisible to him.

Geralt doesn’t answer his question. Instead, he straightens up and says, “Stay here.”

Jaskier takes Roach’s reins when they are passed to him. His eagerness is sloughing off, leaving behind a tightness in his chest and a queasy stomach. Geralt sniffs, then settles his eyes on Jaskier for a moment, expressionless. Jaskier wonders if witchers can actually smell fear or if that’s just another old story that makes Geralt scoff and roll his eyes. A question for later.

Geralt doesn’t linger, and Jaskier watches as he moves out into the sparse trees. He walks slowly and carefully, stopping every so often to just stand unnaturally still and listen or smell. Jaskier isn’t so sure about this plan, isn’t so sure that it’s safe where he’s standing. He keeps glancing over his shoulder in case whatever creature they’re looking for- he thinks it might have been called an archespore- sneaks up behind him.

As he goes, Geralt periodically stomps his foot on the ground, looking to Jaskier like he’s failing at some kind of barn dance. This goes on for a while, long enough that the tension starts to ease from Jaskier’s shoulders and is replaced by boredom. Geralt has gotten far enough away that Jaskier has to squint to see him, a dark figure between green leaves, easy to lose in the mess of plant life.

Taking a deep breath in preparation for admonishment, Jaskier tries to pull Roach just a little closer, but the horse chuffs at him and holds firm. He glares at her. “The whole point is to see,” he grumbles, looking around for something to tie her to so he can go forward on his own.

He’s interrupted by a low rumble. Jaskier pauses to turn, looking up in time to see Geralt hurriedly uncork the bottle and tip its contents back into his mouth in one long swallow. So far away, Jaskier can’t be sure, but he thinks maybe the witcher trembles and groans, a low disgusted sound. Whatever the potion does, Geralt doesn’t hesitate to move when an enormous, angry flower lifts from the earth.

It’s tall, nearly rising to the same height as Geralt. Its face is made up of two great, red petals that taper into curled points. At the center where they meet are green and purple protuberances that smack like lips. The stem is thick and veiny, almost more akin to meat than plant, and twists down to the earth where it is embedded. Ugly yellow pustules swell out from its body and hang from what might be vines. From where he watches, Jaskier can see the stem undulate, giving the archespore a snake-like movement as it sizes Geralt up. Then it lashes out, snapping its green maw.

Jaskier watches the fight in awe. He’s never seen Geralt fight before, was restrained and tied back to back with him while they were knocked around by Toruviel and has been around for the aftermath of a few contracts when Geralt returned covered in ichor but generally no worse for wear.

Now he sees. Geralt is strong and graceful and very, very capable. When the fight begins, there is a little thrill of nerves up Jaskier’s spine, concern for the witcher he’s grown to like. But witnessing how Geralt moves- like someone altered and trained for this purpose, someone doing what they were made to do- Jaskier realizes that there is only one way for this fight to go. He sheds his worry and allows himself to be fully entertained.

It doesn’t take long for the monster to fall, and Geralt moves to hack away the red bud that serves as a head. Jaskier has seen the proof of a completed contract before, usually while it hangs off Roach’s saddle or Geralt hauls it onto someone’s table, but he’s glad that his first time out doesn’t involve an actual beheading. It’s best to take these things slow, he thinks. Or, at least, in increments. Save that for next time.

Geralt starts back, careful not to drag the bud along the ground. Jaskier smiles and tries his best not to look like someone who was in the midst of breaking one of the first conditions of his coming along. The idea of Geralt changing his mind and never bringing him out again has him shuffling back and swiping away his own footprints, even knowing that it won’t fool Geralt.

When Geralt gets closer he seems to hesitate, readjusting his grip on the oversized flower before proceeding. While he had been slow-moving on his way deeper into the trees, he’s no longer impeded by the need to investigate and returns much faster now, though Jaskier can tell he isn’t overly eager to be back. Once he is just a few yards away, Jaskier finally gets a good look at the other man.

It takes him a moment to process what he is seeing.

Yellow fluid slashed from the creature as Geralt swung his blade and now colors his armor, concentrated over his arms but spattered up near his neck and chest as well. Geralt’s breath comes in ragged heaves, lips furled back to expose his clenched teeth. Heat seems to radiate off of him in sizzling waves and Jaskier watches his muscles tremble with unused energy. His skin has blanched to a chalky, near-translucent white, so pale that the unnaturally slow thrum of his pulse is visible. Even more shocking is how Geralt’s eyes have deepened from a honey gold to black.

Jaskier’s heartrate picks up at the sight of him, and something fades into Geralt’s expression; defeat, resignation, as if Jaskier is proving some sort of point, or a long-standing belief. Like he’s been waiting this whole time for Jaskier to look at him just like this and now, apparently proven correct, is thinking _ah, there it is_.

Jaskier swallows past the lump in his throat, exhaling his shock, and pushes himself into action. He releases Roach and hurries towards Geralt, hands up and reaching. The witcher’s brow furrows and for a split second he tenses as if readying for a fight, ridiculous as that would be. But the bard reaches him first. Jaskier grabs at Geralt’s armor and carefully shoves him, trying to force him to sit down or at least lean against a tree. Geralt doesn’t allow himself to be moved, staring down at Jaskier with those darkened eyes, as if he’s been told he might sprout wings.

Jaskier’s voice is unexpectedly strong when he speaks. “Did it get you? What happened? I didn’t see- you said poison? Is this poison? You didn’t tell me which- Geralt, which potion do you need?”

Geralt pushes Jaskier off of him, still wearing a confused and frustrated expression. He snaps out, “I’m not hurt.”

Thrown, Jaskier gawps at him. Geralt is stubborn about taking care of himself, but surely he doesn’t think he can just walk away from something that is having such a blatant effect on him without some help.

“Oh, really? Because you look—”

“Jaskier!” Geralt growls, driving Jaskier back when he once again reaches for the witcher. Jaskier goes still, his heart still thumping.

Keeping one hand out in case Jaskier tries to charge him again, Geralt explains. Speaking slowly and deliberately seems difficult with the way his lips tremble, but he pushes through and Jaskier elects not to comment, just this once. Geralt pulls out the now-empty bottle and says, “I take this potion before some fights because it boosts my adrenalin, which makes me faster. More aware. Better.”

Jaskier thinks about how beautiful he was, all that grace and power. He supposes it was a bit different from how Geralt usually moves, though not by a lot. It’s hard to imagine that Geralt wouldn’t be a good fighter without it. But what does Jaskier know? Geralt’s definitely feeling the impact of what he took, so it’s undeniably doing something.

Jaskier lets this sink in, tracing his eyes over Geralt’s altered complexion, surprised to see that he’s already returning to normal, like his blood has started pumping again. Coming back to life. It’s sort of lovely in how intense and remarkable it is.

“But I’ve never seen you like this before.”

Geralt nods. “It fades before I return.”

“Oh. Fast.”

Jaskier wonders if he was ever supposed to know about this, or if it’s another witcher secret. He’s met with those a few times before, and his efforts to get information about these secrets is like running into a brick wall several times over, hoping to hit a weak point that apparently doesn’t exist. This is different. Geralt is letting him in, just a little bit.

Either way, Jaskier sighs with relief. Geralt lets his hand drop, but Jaskier doesn’t crowd him again. It’s probably not pleasant to have someone grab at him when he’s all keyed up like this. Jaskier is wiping off the ick he picked up from Geralt’s armor, turning so he can take Roach’s reins again so they can start their walk back to town, when the other man clears his throat. Jaskier turns to look at him.

“I avoid being seen like this. I frighten humans enough as is.” His mouth is pressed into a line but he tilts his chin up in a challenge. Jaskier can read the look. _Are you afraid? Do I scare you?_

Horrible as it is to admit, it’s not hard to imagine why someone would take one look at Geralt like this and run screaming. He looks like a vampire, or a multitude of other creatures from spooky campfire stories and legends. It doesn’t help that he’s so twitchy, nor that he glowers and clenches his jaw so much. If Geralt stepped out of the woods like this in the middle of the night, very few people would stick around to figure out what they were seeing. 

But this is Geralt. Jaskier knows it even through these changes. He doesn’t understand everything that comes with following a witcher- what everything means- but he can tell that what stands before him is not a monster. Just his companion. Albeit, an alchemically altered companion. 

Jaskier chuckles. “The most frightening thing here is your attitude. My arms are going to be bruised from how you pushed me around, you brute. I was trying to make sure you were okay.” He arches a brow at Geralt, leveling him with an unimpressed gaze. “Next time, just tell me beforehand.”

Geralt doesn’t look particularly relieved, but the intensity of his glare is replaced by his usual irritation. He rolls his eyes and huffs. Jaskier takes Roach’s reins and walks her over, reminded of the archespore when Geralt adjusts his grip on it.

Staring at the flower head, Jaskier says, “It’s rather lovely when it stows its teeth.”

A pause. Then Geralt wordlessly ties the head to Roach’s saddle, patting her appreciatively. Jaskier cautiously swipes a hand out to feel one of the large petals, pulling away when it leaves a sap-like goo on his palm. He flicks it off, pulling a face, and walks on the opposite side of Roach as they make their way back to town. Jaskier rambles about what he saw and how glorious it was, truly worthy of a song, and how coming along was absolutely worth it, exactly what the bard needed.

The whole way, Geralt stares at him. Jaskier takes note of how he gradually returns to normal, eyes lightening to amber and his body seeming to calm as the adrenalin fades. Everything is in order by the time they collect Geralt’s reward.

After this first experience, Jaskier finds himself significantly less nervous about following Geralt on contracts, and less worried about Geralt, who hardly seems troubled when it comes to taking out the beasts.

Jaskier wants to get this feeling across in his songs; the sensation of watching Geralt hunt and fight, not for sport, not ruthless or ugly, but… watching Geralt move naturally, with sure hands. Less like he’s cutting something down, but a ritual of sorts. And then, of course, the creatures themselves. The noises, the colors, the weight of them. Things from stories stretching out before him, suddenly very real. Jaskier finds himself nearly entranced by the largeness of it all. Seeing monsters, seeing a witcher in action. Geralt.

He tries to stay wherever Geralt orders him to, but always winds up inching closer to the action, as if pulled forward by an invisible string. If Roach was more skittish, she should surely have abandoned them by now, as Jaskier tends to simply release her reins when she refuses to move with him.

When the hunt is done and Geralt returns with his proof, he always seems to measure the distance between Jaskier and Roach. There’s no hiding that he’s moved, so Jaskier doesn’t even try, just patiently waits for Geralt to reach his inevitable verdict. Each time, Geralt flares his nostrils and growls, “What do you not understand about ‘stay put’?” Jaskier can only laugh it off. He assures the witcher that he was never in any danger and doesn’t admit that sometimes he hardly notices himself getting closer, only knows that he wants to see.

Their life (and they’ve been together long enough that Jaskier begins to consider them partners, though he doesn’t voice this and knows Geralt would be ardently opposed) falls into a new pattern. One that Jaskier likes quite a bit and finds infinitely more satisfying than what they were doing before. They travel through the country and camp until they reach a town, then get a room at an inn, one or two depending on availability and their funds. Sharing seems like a natural progression after having Geralt so close at night when they camp, and the idea of separating, of not being able to keep track of the witcher, makes him inexplicably grumpy. They get a meal and drink at the tavern where, after filling his belly, Jaskier earns a little coin of his own.

Sometimes someone will approach Geralt with a contract, other times they have to listen to gossip or check noticeboards. On occasion, they end the night without a job and simply exist for a while until they either have to move on or Geralt gets work. There are always whispers of help needed somewhere, or a posting, and Geralt adjusts their course to go to it.

It’s nice, pleasant in a way Jaskier never thought this kind of life could be, and he thinks he could easily exist in this pattern until the day he dies.


	5. Boundaries

Geralt gets hurt and things change.

The witcher is very good at his job and usually the gore that covers him after a hunt is from whatever he was contracted to kill, not from himself. And sure, he winds up with bruises and scrapes and cuts, sometimes walks back to Jaskier and Roach with a limp, cursing and downing Swallow to aid his abnormally fast healing. But it has never been something that Jaskier had to worry about.

Geralt, used to taking care of himself, rubs salve onto his wounds and wraps them on his own. Jaskier has even witnessed him stitch a few deep jabs, and he never looked overly troubled. Not to say that Jaskier hasn’t offered his assistance and really meant it, feeling no compunction about getting close to Geralt, nor about dealing with minor injuries. But anytime he offers, Geralt shakes his head or, if he’s in a particularly foul mood, barks out a no. And if Jaskier doesn’t bother asking, concern moving him closer, arms outstretched, Geralt always pulls away from him.

It’s a little insulting, but Jaskier understands that Geralt isn’t used to people caring, and the only hands that touch him are usually either trying to cause harm or are paid to be there.

Jaskier is actually quite privileged in this, as he is slowly allowed more and more when it comes to physical contact. He is a tactile person, always wanting to touch and feel things. This has been an issue in some shops, and every so often earns him strange looks. He knows to be mindful around people, as not everyone is quite as handsy or necessarily appreciative of the contact. Jaskier is considerate when it comes to other people’s desires- it’s one of his better traits. He has also learned that staying aware of his hands can keep him out of trouble.

They’re looking for a deep, dark cave up in the hills, purportedly just a little way out of the village. Geralt picked up a job for what was described as an “arachnomorph infestation.” He is answering Jaskier’s questions as they walk, keeping his eyes out for the cave and absently telling Jaskier that there are some arachnomorphs larger than the ones they’re about to face, and that they can devour animals as big as an ox in mere seconds.

Jaskier pulls a face that makes Geralt smile a little, amused. The achievement would have delighted Jaskier if he wasn’t stuck on the idea of giant spiders crunching away at oversized animals.

Geralt arches a brow and says, “They’re _very_ fast.”

They walk for a while longer, Jaskier thinking about the itchy feeling he gets around regular spiders and how that will surely be amplified when he sees these monstrosities, before Geralt comes to an easy stop. The mouth of the cave stands before them, and it’s dark enough that human eyes can’t make out anything inside past the first few feet.

Jaskier stares into the depths, straining his ears in search of skittering spider feet or snapping mandibles. Nothing. Just the perfect silence of a black pit. He resists the urge to shiver, fidgeting with his hands instead.

Geralt sighs, then gets his things in order. He pockets a potion before taking a quick swig of another. Jaskier watches him twitch as his body changes, eyes melting into a deep black that doesn’t shock Jaskier anymore, that might even be obsidian-lovely.

“Stay here,” Geralt says, like he always says. Jaskier nods.

“Of course. Need to make sure Roach is taken care of.” Jaskier gives Geralt a reassuring smile even though they both know he’s going to wander a little deeper into the cave to get a good look, even though Geralt snaps at him about it every time, especially when the monster is a bit more aggressive. And apparently lightning fast.

Geralt gives him a hard look before stepping away and disappearing into the unlit depths. Jaskier stands still only for a moment before looking for a rock to lean against while he waits. He’s barely slouched when the sound of combat begins, and Jaskier listens intently before he gestures at Roach to stay still and slips into the cavern.

At first Jaskier walks along blindly. His open eyes see only pitch black before him, and so he shuffles his feet and guides himself by touch, judging his proximity to the fight based on its tumult in the distance, though the way the sound bounces and echoes off the walls makes this difficult. Finally, his eyes adjust enough that when he squints, he can make out movement ahead of him.

A flash of a sword, pale hair, and several round, hairy, massive bodies zooming around. Jaskier crouches behind a stalagmite and watches, struggling to make out details but able to follow what is happening in the vaguest sense. He can distinguish what is Geralt from what is a big spider, and does his best to interpret what sounds the creatures make when one of Geralt’s attacks land and what is just regular angry squealing.

The arachnomorphs’ speed was not exaggerated. Jaskier hears the burst of Geralt using his Signs to slow them, allowing himself to pull away or dive in and avoid their mandibles. But still, the mad clicking of what must be the tips of their legs on stone ground is rapid. It makes the skin around the back of Jaskier’s neck prickle.

From Jaskier’s vantage point, the fight seems to be going well. The spiders are making their horrible racket more than Geralt grunts, and he doesn’t hear the witcher stumble or heave for air.

Once his eyes are completely adjusted to the dark, Jaskier can see that Geralt is facing one of the spiders, making swift jabs here and there while it dances around him. While he does this, a second spider creeps around Geralt and twists its body around. Before Jaskier can call out to the distracted witcher, the second spider shoots out a white web that goops around Geralt’s body. The fluid appears to dry on contact and hold Geralt in place, unaffected by his squirming. The spiders scamper in greedily, three of them clicking along the ground and moving in.

Geralt yanks on the web and swears. There’s a lurid noise Jaskier knows is them tearing at him, biting at his armor and catching on exposed skin. Geralt yells in pain, in _agony_ , and Jaskier is struck by the image of an ox and snapping mandibles.

He moves without thinking.

His hands scrabble until they find two stones on the ground, one just larger than his fist and the other about the size of a flower bud. Jaskier lobs the smaller one into the fray, not sure exactly where he’s aiming, and then charges into the open with a wild scream, fully aware of his own foolishness the entire time.

One of the spiders remains latched to Geralt, whose anguished yelling seems to drain off into an almost startled grunt. Closer now, Jaskier sees Geralt dig a dagger into the spider over and over while it gnaws at him, one of his arms and both legs still trapped in the webbing.

Jaskier can’t linger long, or offer more help, though, because the other two spiders adjust their attention onto him. He can make out the red glow of their eyes but little more. If Geralt was having a hard time with the creatures, Jaskier has no chance. So, he makes the reasonable but challenging decision to not really try.

He bolts as far from Geralt as he can, and then locks in place, closing his eyes and reaching his arms out before him, braced for whatever is about to happen. A massive body slams into him and he screams. The spider grabs onto his shoulders, the force throwing them both back. Jaskier’s head thumps into the stone floor of the cave. He arches his back, bringing up the larger stone that has somehow remained in his grasp.

Blindly, Jaskier smashes the rock between the mandibles and tries to hold it there, distantly aware that the second spider is skittering around them, spitting webs that catch Jaskier and its fellow spider and bind them together. Jaskier inhales sharply and holds, trying to smother panic as he is pressed closer to the attacking spider. The webbing builds until they are stuck in a hot cocoon with barely enough room for their struggle. He feels horrifically compressed.

There is an angry bellow and a ripping noise deeper in the cave where he left Geralt. A giant thud and then rapid footsteps. The familiar sound of heavy boots. Jaskier would sigh with relief if the air hadn’t already been crushed out of him.

There’s noise all around, flitting and screeching and clanging and Jaskier doesn’t need to see to know that Geralt is winning, and that Jaskier just has to keep the stone in place, has to hold his breath, for just a few moments longer and then—the creature above him goes stiff and still, and something sharp caresses Jaskier’s stomach, an intrusion that pulls away just as fast, and then the webbing is being pulled at and the spider body, now limp and heavy on Jaskier’s chest, is dragged away.

Jaskier takes a deep breath and opens his eyes. Geralt is standing over him with a bloody blade, eyes bright and near-feral in the dark.

Neither of them speaks for a moment, their heavy breathing the only noise. No more spiders. At least, none that dare approach.

Then Geralt groans and drops down to sit beside him. Jaskier smells hot, coppery blood and thinks about the spiders chomping on the witcher, that awful howling he had made. A thrill of nerves branch down his stomach.

“Let me look!” he snaps, dropping the wet stone he was still grasping. Jaskier pulls himself up and does his best to assess the damage, though he still can’t see very well. He hears Geralt’s ragged breathing, catches the painful hitch to it. Jaskier licks his lips and asks, “Can you move?”

Geralt swallows. “Why did you do that?” he whispers. Jaskier is close enough to feel the heat of his breath, and for Geralt to grip the front of Jaskier’s shirt in his sticky, bloody hands, and pull him in closer like a threat, though Jaskier feels no fear for himself.

“Geralt,” he repeats, slower, “can you move?”

A moment, then, “No. I will. I just…need some time.”

Jaskier grabs the hand that still holds his shirt and searches until he finds the yellow gleam of Geralt’s eyes. They’re steady, and Jaskier knows that the witcher can see just fine in the dark. His heart is still jackrabbiting, both from his own brush with death and the pain he can feel radiating from Geralt. Words tumble out of Jaskier, strained and shaking.

“Do you have Swallow? I can get it from Roach if you don’t, you just need to tell me.” Jaskier feels himself squeezing Geralt’s hand hard, but can’t make himself ease up. Geralt inhales slowly and shifts around. “Geralt?”

“Go get it.”

Geralt’s hand releases his shirt and Jaskier launches to his feet, ignoring his own aches and how the world seems to waver a little when he stands. He runs back to the mouth of the cave. The trip is perilous and he bangs against several obstacles, nearly tipping himself over and earning a few more bruises before he rushes back into the light.

Roach is waiting patiently, seemingly unbothered by him shuffling through her bags. Jaskier finds the potions and remembers sitting at a table in the back of an inn, bottles lined up in a neat row, Geralt pointing at each one, saying its name and what it does, Jaskier rapt and eager to know. He finds the right one quickly and then returns to the cave.

He’s trembling now as his adrenalin fades and moves more carefully on the way back to Geralt, mindful of the fragile bottle he’s carrying. He follows the rasp of Geralt’s pained breathing, reaching forward carefully and feeling around. Abruptly, a gloved hand catches his wrist.

Geralt wheezes, “Jaskier,” and the bard drops to his knees, banging down harshly and blindly pressing the bottle to the wrist attached to the gripping hand. Geralt lets go of him and takes the potion. Clinking glass, then the sound of the cork being plucked out. Two long gulps.

A minute of silence. Unable to take it, Jaskier whispers, “Are you okay?”

Geralt sighs. “Just wait.”

Finally, Geralt seems to relax. He lets out a relieved breath and then pushes to his feet without warning, dragging Jaskier up as well with a hand hooked under his arm. Jaskier follows him out of the cave, blinking at the shock of sunlight he’d barely noticed before and taking in the sight of blood covering Geralt. 

Jaskier can’t help but check his injuries. He grabs Geralt gently and moves him around. The witcher is silent and surprisingly agreeable under his administrations. The wounds are already starting to mend and Geralt looks less pale and pain-stricken than Jaskier might have expected. He guesses that’s the potion working and not his own mind exaggerating how hurt Geralt had been.

Jaskier also realizes that at some point, Geralt had taken the time to collect a large chunk of spider head, along with a now dull eye. He stares at it dubiously, but stays close to Geralt while he hefts it up and ties it to Roach, clicking lightly with his tongue to sooth her. Jaskier brackets his hands out like he might have to catch the witcher. Geralt looks at him askance but doesn’t send him away. He replaces the empty bottle in the saddlebag.

“Are you okay?” Jaskier asks again, hoping Geralt doesn’t hear the shakiness in his voice. Geralt hums and nods again before turning his attention to the bard, scanning him up and down.

“Did it bite you?” he asks gruffly.

Jaskier doesn’t know and looks down at his own body. His clothes are rumpled and covered in grime, some of the ick on him expulsed from the spider and some from being so close to a bleeding witcher. There’s a red print on the front of his shirt where Geralt had grabbed him. Beyond that, he feels achy and worn down. His pulse is still thumping away heavily. His right hand, which he had used to jam the rock into place in the attacking spider’s mandibles, is torn up along the side just below his pinky, bleeding slightly.

He says, “No,” and Geralt nods, looking satisfied.

Jaskier doesn’t comment on how it is a little more difficult that normal for Geralt to mount Roach, or how he exhales slowly once seated, or how he slouches as they make their way back to town.

Once Roach is tucked away in a stable, the spider parts transferred from her saddlebags to hang from Geralt’s belt, and they’ve returned to the inn, Jaskier orders a hot bath and food to their room. Then he gently urges Geralt upstairs.

Geralt hesitates in the doorway of their shared room, staring longingly at the bed.

“Not yet, Geralt. Here, sit,” Jaskier says. He guides Geralt to a wooden chair that looks like it might collapse under the witcher’s weight but only creaks a little when he slumps onto it. Jaskier works the spider head off of Geralt’s belt and lets it drop unceremoniously to the floor, nudging it away with his boot. Geralt snorts, but his eyes drop shut.

Jaskier studies him for a moment and then reaches for one of his belts. Before he can get started on the buckle, Geralt catches his hand, squeezing just a little too hard. Forcing himself not to yank back and retreat, Jaskier places his other hand very lightly over Geralt’s, careful not to grab.

He licks his lips, then whispers, “Let me help, Geralt.”

There’s a long moment of hesitation before Geralt’s eyes flicker open and he stares back at Jaskier, surprisingly warm, brows furled like he’s piecing something together. It almost breaks Jaskier’s heart. Then Geralt lets out a heavy breath and nods, dropping his eyes shut again and releasing his hold on the bard.

Jaskier works slowly on his armor. He speaks quietly and aimlessly as he goes, smiling when Geralt hums in response even as he is dozing. Soon the armor is off, leaving only his black shirt, trousers, and boots, which Jaskier is peeling off when there is a timid knock at the door.

“Hold on,” Jaskier says to Geralt before he rises and opens the door.

Standing there is a man and a woman, who, once permitted to enter, get to work filling the tub with steaming water. They make several trips up and down the stairs, and Jaskier watches, smiling politely and situating himself to partially block Geralt from their view. On the final trip up, they place a tray of warm food on the table before wordlessly making their way out. Jaskier closes the door behind them after whispering his thanks and passing them each a coin.

He returns to Geralt and says, “Bath, food, sleep. In that order.”

Geralt growls but doesn’t complain when Jaskier gets back to removing his boots, which seem to be suctioned on and nearly send Jaskier flying when he finally manages to pull them free. He yanks the socks off and tosses them aside, then stands.

“Arms up?” It’s a gentle question, wondering if Geralt can do it on his own. He does, wincing as Jaskier carefully pulls the shirt away and throws it into the pile of discarded clothing, wrinkling his nose at the blood and sweat weight of it.

Jaskier looks back at Geralt. Considers their position for a moment. “You’ll have to help me with the trousers,” he says, and Geralt sighs, rises to his feet and undoes the laces. Jaskier watches with his hands out, ready to help. It’s unnecessary. Geralt loosens the front of his trousers and then slides them and his underclothes down on his own. Jaskier is suddenly nervous and amused at how brazen the other man is being with his nudity, thinking about but not missing their usual partition.

Jaskier gives him a quick once over, then turns Geralt around. Mumbling his approval at how quickly the witcher’s wounds have knitted together with the help of his potion and mutations, how he isn’t going to need stitches, and assuring that he will help with the salves after Geralt’s bath. Filling the silence.

Jaskier follows behind as Geralt walks to the tub and stays close while he steps in and lowers himself into the water with a groan. Jaskier lets him soak in peace for a while, tittering around, then cautiously approaches again.

He asks, “May I?” holding up the tray of soaps the people carried in. Geralt considers and nods again.

Jaskier lathers up some soap and smooths it over Geralt’s warm body, then rinses him clean, careful around his injuries. It might be kind of odd, at first, to be so intimately close to him. To run his hands over the planes of Geralt’s body so easily, finding him surprisingly pliable when Jaskier asks him to lift his arm or lean forward. Very strange, but also good. Something tugs on Jaskier’s chest at being allowed to do this for him, but he doesn’t give the feeling voice.

Jaskier undoes the tie in Geralt’s hair, letting the white strands spread freely and stick to his damp skin. He works soap through, scratching lightly at his scalp, until the locks are untangled and clear of clotted blood. Careful to cup his hand on the other man’s forehead to shield his eyes, Jaskier pours water over his head.

Once the witcher is clean and jasmine-scented, Jaskier leans against the tub, humming a tune and occasionally dipping his fingers into the water to check the temperature. Slowly, the water goes cold. Jaskier stands, then, and lets Geralt support himself on his shoulder as he gets out. While Geralt dries himself off, Jaskier steps to the side and looks through the salves and ointments they have. Geralt is more awake now and watches Jaskier as he approaches with his selection, which he holds up for approval.

Geralt nods, lets Jaskier check each wound and rub different salves on for cuts and bruises. While he does this, Geralt eats, unexpectedly ravenous for someone who just got tossed around. He’s finishing up his meal when Jaskier steps away to rifle around for a clean set of clothes which he passes to Geralt.

“Should I…?” Jaskier gestures between Geralt and the fresh clothes, and Geralt waves him off.

“I can do it,” he says, and he does.

Jaskier takes a few bites of his own meal, though he can barely force down a third of it, and Geralt, now in clean clothes, stares at him. Thinking Geralt is watching him eat jealously, Jaskier slides the food at him across the table, and Geralt frowns before finishing it off.

Jaskier wouldn’t mind a bath himself, but he’s not going to soak in it after Geralt, not when the water has already cooled and there’s gore floating around in it. He rises to his feet, yanks on a splatter-free shirt, gathers up Geralt’s dirty clothes and decides that they can be salvaged. He eyes the now-gross bathwater and concludes that he’ll have to find a different way, then grabs up the spider chunk on his way to the door.

Jaskier hesitates. “Will you be alright if I leave for a bit?” he asks, looking at Geralt and knowing the answer. The witcher is exhausted but already practically healed. Nothing more Jaskier can do for his body.

“Where are you going?” Geralt asks, frowning.

Jaskier holds up the spider parts. “I think I’ll get your pay then use some of it for laundry.” Jaskier has never collected the bounty on his own before and Geralt looks skeptical, but if Jaskier can do anything it’s talk, and he can definitely be persuasive, as evidenced by him traveling long-term with a loner witcher.

When he returns a little while later, coin purse heavy on his hip and clothes passed on to a washerwoman, Geralt is deeply asleep.

Things change after this. Geralt stops swiping Jaskier’s hands away and it becomes almost routine for him to check Geralt’s injuries and help with baths, though neither is completely necessary most of the time. When they walk, their arms brush, and Geralt lets Jaskier sit close to him, or set up his bedroll right next to Geralt’s, even sometimes slinging an arm across the bard when the weather starts to cool down and Jaskier would otherwise spend the nights shivering. When they’re short on coin, they get a room with one bed and share, the awkwardness fading quickly as the proximity becomes normal.

Jaskier likens it to being married, pottering around a little house together, the closeness becoming easy. Intimacy simply the way it is. Jaskier has never had this with someone he isn’t fucking, and it’s strange but good, somehow making perfect sense. And if he slips this into a few of his songs, slathering it in metaphor and jumbling identities until it seems like a fictional story, who’s the wiser?


	6. Friendship

It becomes very clear very fast that this is not a partnership solely for financial gain. At least, not for Jaskier. As they spend more time together, and as Geralt lets Jaskier do more than simply trail behind him, as they spend their travels largely silent but also talking, as Geralt allows Jaskier to care for him and burrow deeper into his life, there is a growing and unspoken devotion in Jaskier’s heart. He feels something that he hasn’t for some time, which is potentially unconditional loyalty.

And so, they’re friends. They’re friends, and Jaskier knows that they’re friends because this is definitely how people make friends and if they weren’t friends it wouldn’t make sense for Geralt to share so much with him. It seems obvious.

Jaskier and Geralt are visiting a market, going from stall to stall, hopping into a few stores and restocking. They periodically separate when their needs don’t align, but always quickly rejoin. Geralt browses a selection of daggers and Jaskier hangs around until the boredom becomes too much, at which point he trails off to look at some scented oils, some perfumes. Once they make their purchases, they backtrack to the street, searching for each other in the middle and then roaming to the next stop together.

Jaskier does buy new perfume, lovely and splashing yellow in a tube. He cheerfully presents it to Geralt, who twitches away from the proffered bottle and arches a disapproving brow.

“You shouldn’t smear that all over yourself unless you want to constantly announce your presence,” he grouches, already turning his eyes away to scan the nearby booths.

Jaskier frowns and brings the bottle back to his nose, giving it a hard sniff. It hasn’t suddenly become offensive since he left the merchant’s table. Still pleasant and warm. He looks back to Geralt haughtily.

“It’s a _subtle_ scent, Geralt. And look, it’s layered so it will change throughout the day. It’ll start off like cloves and cinnamon and then fade into a delicate floral smell. Just a hint when someone gets close.” 

Geralt grunts, clearly doubtful, so Jaskier dabs some onto his wrist and tries to bring the skin up to Geralt’s nose. The witcher deftly catches his arm and pushes it away, the gesture practiced enough that it isn’t brusque or painful. Playful, if anything.

Jaskier laughs. “Come on, big man.” He brings his arm up again and is batted away. Jaskier’s laughter doubles, the sight of Geralt so put out by perfume sending him into a fit. He tries again, wiping away a mirthful tear and shoving his wrist out, aware enough not to accidently punch him. Geralt relents and takes a quick, little sniff, then rubs his nose as if afraid he got some of the perfume on himself, like it’s the most wretched thing he’s ever come in contact with. Rude.

Jaskier clutches his stomach, aching with laughter. Geralt glares but there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“It’s strong,” he insists, still wiping the back of his hand under his nostrils.

Jaskier rolls his eyes and makes a show of smelling his own wrist, then smiling blissfully. “It’s not. Your wolfish nose makes it seem worse than it is.”

“If it’s strong to me, it will be strong to anything I’m hunting.”

“You realize I’ve _been_ wearing scents like this.”

Geralt pulls a face that illustrates that he’s keenly aware of the habit. “Jaskier.”

“I do.”

This puts them at a bit of a standstill, though not an unpleasant one. Jaskier can’t stop grinning. It’s a weird thing to argue about and Geralt seems genuinely worried.

Jaskier glances over and says, “Ah! Look at this!” then wanders off towards a stall with jewelry. He’s not actually interested, but figures Geralt won’t follow him unless he wants to argue that the sun will glint off of anything so shiny, which will also alert everything in the woods that there’s a bard heading their way.

Geralt makes a noise but starts sorting through his own purchases, staying back in the road and making sure his purse is secured and that his little bottles and new sharp things are tucked in their proper places.

Jaskier goes to the stall. Before he can even start perusing, he sees that the merchant is looking at him intensely, apparently rather disgruntled. This might mean that Jaskier is being judged or it might just be that the merchant is an odd gentleman who can’t change his expression from one of vague concern and confusion.

Jaskier does his best to ignore it. He leans in to examine a short-chained necklace with an amber-colored stone imbedded in the pendant. It reminds him of Geralt’s eyes, and he considers wearing it for performances when he’s traveling alone, like a representation of the White Wolf. The merchant brings him out of his considerations by clearing his throat loudly and in Jaskier’s direction.

Jaskier blinks up at him, expecting a comment about skin tone or eyes or value, but the merchant hasn’t lost that uncertain expression and his eyes flick to beyond Jaskier before returning reluctantly to the bard. Jaskier knows what that means. Travel with a witcher for any length of time and you learn very quickly how people react to them. How people look at their companions. Jaskier has been hit with enough stones that were targeted at Geralt to start keeping an eye out for certain mannerisms.

Luckily, this particular person doesn’t have a murderous or scared look, but a slightly nervous and interested one. More often than not, this expression is directed at Jaskier, because he’s definitely less intimidating than the actual object of their curiosity and is supposedly more likely to answer their questions. Jaskier generally disappoints them, even with his yammering. He tries to allow Geralt some privacy, unless it’s something that will help Geralt’s reputation or is judged by Jaskier to be very innocent or already fairly common knowledge, though he and Geralt sometimes disagree on his interpretations. He’ll share something like _you’re right, his eyes are very yellow, and yes that’s natural_ or _No, no swindling. See, Geralt doesn’t take payment in advance, only after the job is done_. That sort of thing is safe, unlike his few missteps where he might have overshared just a little or maybe made a joke that Geralt didn’t appreciate but was already immortalized in song.

So, Jaskier waits until the merchant licks his lips and leans in conspiratorially to ask, “You’re with that witcher, then?”

Perhaps strangely, Jaskier has never been asked that. People normally give them weird, not vaguely insulting looks of skepticism but keep their mouths shut, assuming, not wrongly, that the bard is trailing behind the witcher in the way bards trail behind people who do whatever is story-worthy and move on with their days.

Jaskier says, “Yes. I’m a bard, you see, and—” but the merchant doesn’t wait for him to elaborate.

“You’re close,” he says, brow furrowed. His tone makes it seem like the merchant just watched Jaskier bang his lute on the ground and doesn’t understand why a bard would be so careless with his instrument. Like he’s wary, or worried about and for Jaskier.

“Ah. What’s that?” Jaskier asks.

The merchant’s frown somehow finds room to deepen. “You were playing with him.” He looks again over Jaskier’s shoulder.

His phrasing is off, but Jaskier supposes it isn’t untrue. He glances back at Geralt, who has his arms crossed and is watching people mill around between stalls, peeking over and catching Jaskier and the merchant staring. His expression turns questioning and Jaskier tries to smile before turning back to the merchant, who looks maybe a little pinker than before. Jaskier is suddenly concerned that Geralt will hear this conversation, though he doesn’t know why that would be an issue, and wonders if there’s enough going on around them to distract from or muddle their words.

“That’s true. I was doing that. But it’s normal, isn’t it?” he asks, trying his best to sound unconcerned.

The merchant hesitates. “I’m not…is it?”

“Well,” Jaskier hums, fidgeting. “Don’t you…it’s normal to mess around with friends. You have fun with your friends, yeah?” The merchant makes a face that communicates quite clearly that he’s having a difficult time connecting these two concepts. Or perhaps he’s sour about how Jaskier is talking to him like a child. Likely both.

Jaskier picks up the amber-jeweled necklace and asks, “How much for this?”

The merchant inhales and then stares at the necklace as he tries to transition back into business mode, slowly remembering the value and trading it over for the coins Jaskier passes him.

They’re almost in the clear- Jaskier could walk away right now and get back to his day. But he can’t help himself. He says, somewhat loftily, “Geralt- the witcher- is my friend.”

He stores the necklace carefully and tucks the rest of his coin away. When he meets the merchant’s eyes again, they’re squinting at Jaskier with marked bafflement. Before Jaskier can flee, the man asks, “Why?”

Jaskier sighs. It’s his own fault. “Why what?”

“Why are you friends?”

Jaskier wishes he could take his money back now, feeling offended for both himself and Geralt.

“Because Geralt is wonderful,” he snaps with too much intensity and too little thought. Now he really hopes Geralt isn’t listening. He can’t make himself look back to check if the man is still staring at him.

The merchant waves his hand apologetically and says, “I understand why you’re with him, bard.” Jaskier starts to tell him that, no, he’s minimizing it now, this is more for him than work, but the merchant continues. “But how…I don’t understand why he’d…”

He gestures meaningfully at Jaskier, whose mouth hangs open with shock at the absolute balls of the question, the fucking gall. Jaskier promptly clicks it shut and thinks with a rush of heat that he might throw himself over the rows of jewelry and strangle the merchant.

But then he finds himself unable to come up with a good answer. Jaskier knows that most of what he does actually really annoys Geralt and that it’s less about what attributes Jaskier brings to their travels and more about just getting used to having him around. Until Geralt started to enjoy his company. Or Jaskier has made himself invaluable because not only is he on a campaign to improve the witcher’s reputation, but he also picks guts out of his hair and rubs him down with soap. That makes it seem insincere. Trite.

So, again, he says, “We’re friends.”

The merchant hums and looks at Geralt once more, who is surely getting suspicious of them now. The merchant takes a long moment to think everything over, then shakes his head. “I just don’t think witchers—”

“Well, he _does_ ,” Jaskier interrupts rather petulantly, and then, having had enough of the whole asinine conversation, turns on his heel and stalks away. Geralt is still standing there. He looks at Jaskier very oddly, which means he probably heard everything. Jaskier does his best not to avert his gaze out of embarrassment.

Geralt asks him, “Do you have everything you need?”

And Jaskier says, “Yep.”

They leave the market without mentioning the small confrontation. Part of Jaskier wants Geralt to reassure him and say _You know; I do like you. Of course we’re friends,_ but that’s not really Geralt’s way.

He just continues to shoot Jaskier looks, expression pinched, for the next few days.

A desperate part of Jaskier needs to prove it. The little insecure pit in his chest that he’s usually so good at ignoring perks up and stings until Jaskier feels almost desperate to validate his feelings, to be certain that his sense of friendship isn’t just something silly he made up.

Jaskier takes the lead in the next town. He steps up to the innkeeper and, smiling, says, “Hello, my _friend_ and I need a room for a few nights,” and, instead of letting it be, or even looking indifferent or pleased the way Jaskier wants him to, Geralt makes a noise that might be a derisive snort and might be a growl.

The innkeeper’s eyes flicker to Geralt, who is standing just behind Jaskier, and they stick there as he inhales very slowly, like he’s working up to something, and there’s some faint redness forming up around his neck like a rash. Jaskier lightly raps his knuckles down on the counter and the innkeeper returns to looking at him. Jaskier asks how much that’ll be and there must be something in Jaskier’s face, maybe his smile has become stretched and forced, that tells the innkeeper to hurry this conversation along, maybe for Jaskier’s benefit, and he mutters the cost.

Jaskier pushes the issue for a while without actually trying to discuss it. They’ll be walking down a trail and he’ll pipe up, “Geralt, dear friend, could you please hand me my waterskin?” or when Geralt asks for (or, more often, demands) something, Jaskier will grin and answer, “Of course, what are friends for?” and he introduces him as “My friend, the White Wolf Geralt,” or “My witcher friend, Geralt.”

Geralt doesn’t always try to dissuade him, but he does shake his head or grunt unhappily more often than not. And that could easily be understood as a joke, so that’s what Jaskier tells himself is going on. Geralt likes to make quick little jokes and rude or snarky remarks, to arch a brow and just say one thing that will either make you laugh or set your teeth on edge, depending which side of the joke you’re on. So, this is right up his alley. It’s a joke to travel miles with Jaskier, to let the bard bathe him and eat with him and sleep beside him in a bed, and then to deny their friendship, because otherwise it’s absolutely ridiculous.

Then again, the longer Jaskier is with Geralt, the better he understands that Geralt doesn’t often allow himself to have nice things or to easily embrace happiness. In rejecting Jaskier, he’s not really thinking about the bard. He’s thinking about himself, denying his own feelings without regarding the cost to others. Self-flagellation without consideration of blood spatter.

It stops being funny. It becomes irritating. And maybe a little hurtful, if Jaskier is honest. This happens at around the point when Geralt goes from huffing at Jaskier’s floundering to looking Jaskier in the eye and saying, “We’re not friends.”

The first time he does it is at a tavern. They’re bundled in close to the fireplace, Jaskier finally feeling like the late-autumn chill is thawing from his bones.

He says to the barmaid, “Another ale for my friend and I, please.”

Geralt exhales, small and exasperated, like he doesn’t understand why he’s been cursed to keep repeating himself, and says, “Not friends.” Simple as day, like he just asked for water instead. None for me, please.

Something in Jaskier’s stomach shrivels. There’s a pull at the base of his throat, a burn between his ribs. He doesn’t feel embarrassed, but shame twines around his heart unmistakably tight, giving him an experimental squeeze. The feeling of rejection, of _unrequited_.

The barmaid hurries away with a nod and Jaskier swallows hard. He’s never been good at holding back strong emotions, though he does try for a moment. Fights to make it settle. In the end he can’t smother it, and snaps, “How, exactly?”

Geralt frowns, looks at him quizzically. “How?”

“How are we not friends?” Jaskier seethes, finding himself caught between his own anger and a frailty he can’t quite name. Luckily, only frustration works its way into his voice.

“Witchers don’t have friends,” Geralt answers, apparently thinking that’s a good reason. That it justifies everything. His tone is low and patronizing, and it sends another wave of anger through Jaskier, so strong that he has to sit back in his chair and cross his arms protectively over his chest.

Jaskier snarls, “Ah, yes. Those cold, emotionless witchers. It’s not like I’ve ever seen you angry, or worried, or sad, or, you know, amused. Remember a few days ago when I tripped over my own feet and screamed and you didn’t laugh? Too bad you couldn’t enjoy the moment because you’re so fucking empty.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt bites. Too late. Jaskier is on a roll now. Tumbling over a hill, not bothering to grab at roots and stones to stabilize himself.

“Or, _hey_ , how about when I didn’t listen to you about the ilyocoris and it basically undid my trousers with its pincers and you didn’t yell at me because you weren’t scared?”

“I wasn’t,” Geralt grits out. His palms are flat on the tabletop now, pushing so that he is propped just a bit higher than Jaskier and can look down on him. It’s supposed to be intimidating but they’re so far beyond that now. You can’t let a man massage soap into your hair then try to scare him away. Now Geralt just looks like he’s halfway to fleeing. It’s simultaneously sad and satisfying.

Jaskier huffs and leans forward, forces the other man to look him in the eye when he speaks, imbuing the words with all the venom he can muster. “Get over yourself.”

Jaskier will regret saying this later. Will feel guilty. But in the moment, he’s aiming to hurt, to make Geralt feel as bad as he does. It’s all he can think to say. Geralt glares at him, stony and silent. Barely affected.

Jaskier can’t stand it anymore and leaves the table with a brusque, “Fuck off, then,” which is a much worse thing to say because he might, actually, fuck off.

But Jaskier goes anyway. He strides to the other end of the tavern and finds a local laundress to keep him company and to occupy his attention for the rest of the night. A distraction, someone to wring the rage out of him, someone who will let him touch how he wants to. Someone who wants him to be that close, even if just for a while.

When he returns to their room in the morning, expecting to find it occupied with only his things and wondering where he’s going to go from here, Geralt hasn’t left. The witcher’s belongings are all packed and ready for travel. Jaskier hasn’t caught him making an early escape, but waiting.

They leave the town together without rehashing their argument. It’s not really worth fighting over because Jaskier _is_ Geralt’s friend. He knows they’re friends. No one would look at how they are and walk away thinking they could be anything less, except maybe a confused merchant. But what did that man know, anyway? Jewelry, for sure. Nothing else, as far as Jaskier can tell.

Because Jaskier doesn’t have a whole lot of experience with this, but Geralt definitely cares about him.

Geralt has a wealth of knowledge about many things, even beyond what needs to be known about monsters and beasts and fighting. He knows about plants and herbs, he knows about the law, a good deal of history. He also prides himself on what he considers common sense and tips and tricks for survival. These are the things he likes to talk to Jaskier about, and it’s one of the many ways Jaskier knows that he is, indeed, his friend.

Geralt tells him which plants are safe to eat, which berries to leave. He tells Jaskier to avoid strange bodies of water at night, what natural formations to leave undisturbed, what floral boundaries not to cross. Jaskier hums and asks questions and sometimes feigns ignorance just so Geralt will keep talking, so Geralt knows that Jaskier is happy to listen.

Geralt is mean sometimes, sure, but Jaskier is an arsehole, too, and gets them in all sorts of trouble with his escapades, has whined and complained and poked at Geralt. So, neither of them is perfect. Jaskier makes up for it in service, and Geralt makes up for it with protection.

Jaskier keeps calling Geralt his friend, calls him dear and darling and whatever else he fancies in the moment, and Geralt always scoffs or rolls his eyes or plainly says “Not friends” over and over like he’s waiting for Jaskier to just get the message, like he also doesn’t know how Jaskier has managed to cling to him for so long even though they both know the truth. Jaskier insists, snaps at Geralt’s silliness and rudeness and denial and Geralt just exhales and shakes his head and pretends.

And that’s all there is to it. Because they’re friends. Of course, they’re friends. Jaskier knows they’re friends. How could they not be friends?


	7. Separation

The first time they separated was hard. After traveling for some time, they finally made it to a town and made use of the local tavern and inn, relieved to be eating something they didn’t have to cook themselves and looking forward to a night’s rest in actual beds. They went through their regular routine, eating their fill in a shadowy corner before Jaskier took up his lute and earned them a discount on the only available room.

When they made it to their room, Geralt had watched Jaskier peel off his traveling clothes and crawl into bed. He’d been silent most of the day, unwilling to share what was bothering him. Jaskier had been too content to push, especially since Geralt had been moody but not snappish.

Once Jaskier curled up under the thin blanket, Geralt stripped off his armor and sat down on his own bed, sitting with his back ramrod straight, carefully looking at the old, chipped furniture and not the bard, with the air of a scrupulous executioner.

Geralt dropped the axe with a gruff, “We should part ways,” that struck Jaskier silent.

Jaskier hadn’t sat up, just stared at Geralt from under his blanket. He waited for an explanation, but Geralt nodded to himself and then rolled to his back, apparently satisfied. He gestured with his hand and the room went dark. Jaskier, wide eyed and confused, struggled to get his mouth to work. Before he could untangle his mess of thoughts, Geralt’s breathing evened out and he was either fast asleep or pretending to be, leaving Jaskier lying in bed and wondering what the fuck he was supposed to do. What had he done to finally tip the scales?

Jaskier would have fought Geralt on it in the morning after he had some time to process what Geralt had said, would have demanded his place beside him, but he woke up alone with the room paid for and Roach absent from the stables. It had left a cold ache in Jaskier’s chest that stubbornly stayed.

In the meantime, he traveled alone, finding company where he could and singing his songs with the fervor of the broken hearted and disappointed.

Then, two months later, he stepped into a tavern and found Geralt hunched in the back, nursing a drink and dropping his gaze when Jaskier caught him staring, pretending that he wasn’t aware of Jaskier’s presence but surely knowing that Jaskier wasn’t so easily fooled. Jaskier played a few songs, wondering if Geralt would flee. Scared that he would turn around and find him gone, Jaskier carefully kept the witcher in sight.

He made some coin and then brought his own tankard over to sit across from Geralt.

Later, after many more separations and reunions that feel fated, he wonders if it’s not so random after all. Maybe his absence is felt just as sharply by Geralt. And, as with all the quirks of living with a witcher, Jaskier grows accustomed to it and, eventually, separating and reuniting becomes part of their routine. Something he accounts for and schedules around. Often enough, it’s Jaskier that announces his departure, needing to travel to some party or noble’s home that he knows Geralt wouldn’t want to attend.

There are two kinds of separation for them: long and short.

Every winter, Geralt and Jaskier part, Geralt heading out to see his witcher companions somewhere that Jaskier, no matter how much he asks, is not permitted to follow. Geralt had explained early on where he was going and why with his usual vagueness until Jaskier came to terms with the fact that he wasn’t welcome at Kaer Morhen, that it wasn’t a place for silly bards, that Geralt was spending time with his _family_. Jaskier usually takes this time to visit Oxenfurt or occasionally (very occasionally and, more often than not, from a distance) to check in on _his_ family.

Then there are shorter separations.

Initially, Jaskier would wake up and Geralt was simply gone, sneaking away in the middle of the night like a secret lover. After this happened a few times, Jaskier had what Geralt clearly thought was an outburst and yelled a bit about worry and confusion and hurt feelings and abandonment until Geralt held up his hands in surrender and said that he would warn Jaskier from then on, a promise he has kept.

So now Geralt tells him that he’s going to head out on his own. A few times, they part right then and there with Jaskier watching Geralt ride off or lead Roach away, leaving the bard outside a tavern or on the outskirts of whatever city or town they’ve wandered to. More often, they’ll bed down at an inn and Jaskier knows that Geralt will be gone in the morning. It’s harder to sleep on these occasions. Jaskier feels like a child, keeping his eyes open until they burn, trying his best to stay awake so he doesn’t wake up to Geralt’s absence, so he can help him pack and say _goodbye_ and _be safe_.

Either way, Jaskier travels around on his own during these times, making money and recuperating from his travels. Or he sniffs his way into non-witcher adventures. He has trailed behind merchants, musicians, knights, and adventurers of every kind, hoping to collect stories and make a few of his own. It’s always fun to have tales to share when he meets back up with Geralt, even when the witcher looks at him skeptically and makes remarks about embellishment.

On one particular occasion, Jaskier is walking along a well-traveled road, having just put his lute away, and is approaching a crossroads. There’s a large noticeboard with different flyers and warnings posted onto it, along with an old, faded map, near-ruined by rain. Jaskier squints at it, tracing a finger along the yellow line he thinks might be his current location, wondering just how far he has to go before reaching the nearest village.

A noise behind him. Soft flutter, barely there. It could be the crush of grass under a boot, perhaps a bandit trying to catch him unawares. But when he jerks around to look, Jaskier sees a man sitting cross-legged, leaning back against a tree and reading. The man is tall and broad, dressed in simple layers. Old boots, worn smooth on the bottoms. No visible weapons, though Jaskier knows by now that there is almost invariably something tucked away. There is a spray of scars across his face, leaving the skin lifted and discolored.

Unable to resist interesting company, Jaskier says, “Ah! You startled me! Good morning.”

As Jaskier steps closer, the man looks up from his book and promptly spits. It’s supposed to disgust Jaskier and send him scurrying away, but all it does is make the bard throw back his head and laugh, because, honestly, if a bad attitude and some spit was enough to scare Jaskier off, he’d be reclining in a castle somewhere as a live-in bard, not wandering down dusty roads waltzing up to strange men.

“What are you reading?” Jaskier asks, pointedly stepping over the wad of spit. The man sighs; another reaction Jaskier is used to. Without answering, he tips the book closer to his chest so the cover is easy to see. Jaskier leans in. It’s simply bound and old. Well-loved. From the title, he gathers that it’s something informative about agriculture. He hums. “Are you a farmer?”

Now the man laughs and shakes his head. He doesn’t have an easy laugh- it seems to catch in his throat like a gasp. Jaskier likes it all the same.

The man says, “Fuck no,” and Jaskier takes his good humor as an invitation to sit beside him, careful not to brush shoulders. He knows better than to push his luck, not quite so foolish as he used to be.

“Where are you heading?” Jaskier asks.

Realizing that the bard isn’t going to leave him in peace, the man marks his place in the book and tucks it into his bag. Jaskier catches a glimpse of the other contents and finds them not too dissimilar to what Geralt carries, give or take a few weapons and potions.

The man says, “Nowhere. Just around.” Vague enough to be interesting.

Jaskier introduces himself and learns that the man is named Vur. Vur doesn’t tell Jaskier to fuck off once they rise to their feet and, instead of going his own way, walks beside him down the road.

It turns out that Vur is a vagabond and that his main interests in life are reading whatever he can get his hands on and fighting. It’s not what Jaskier is used to, and frankly there’s enough grief in Vur’s eyes to make the whole thing ring with tragedy. He doesn’t fight monsters or beasts, but common people who are also looking for some trouble, who want to prove something or feel something or hurt something.

It also happens that Vur’s third favorite thing is fucking, and Jaskier happily obliges. Lying in the dark, sticky and smelly and listening to the insects chirp around them, Vur traces his fingers absently over Jaskier’s chest hair and whispers his story like a lullaby. He tells Jaskier about his scars and his anger and his grief. In the morning before they part ways, Jaskier sings Vur the beginning of the song he is composing for him, and leaves him with one of his old poetry books.

And then there’s the time Jaskier meets up with a woman in worn leather armor and dark, braided hair. Her eyes are like whiskey and her voice is low and always hoarse, like she’s just finished yelling. Jaskier sings a few songs, hurrying through and probably doing himself a disservice in the little roadside tavern. His eyes keep roaming over to her. She sits at the far end of the bar and stubbornly doesn’t meet his gaze, barely acknowledging that he’s performing at all.

Once he’s finished, however, she waits until he is seated before crossing the room to join him and sliding a coin over. He takes it with a smile.

“I hope this is for the music and not other favors. I do those without a fee,” he says cheerfully. She doesn’t laugh, but there’s a twinkle of delight in her eyes. They’re splendid things that he plans to write into his ballads, the kind of eyes that glint like crystal. And now, finally, they’re gracing him.

Though it’s obvious in her posture that she isn’t a woman quick to trust, she doesn’t watch him wearily. She doesn’t think he’s anything to worry about, and that’s undoubtedly a sound assumption. In a different context, she would be frightening. All broad muscle and knowing eyes, with a steadiness he knows well as belonging to someone confident in their own abilities.

Jaskier is thinking about two things: a story to tell and sex.

“Jaskier.” He tucks the coin away and lifts his ale to her, a gesture she returns.

She considers him for a moment longer, taking a long swallow of her drink before she nods her head and says, “My name is Malne.”

They fall into silence, sipping their drinks and watching other patrons mill around. Jaskier knows that it’s better not to rush people into sharing or to try and barge his way into a good tale, but it’s difficult for him to go so long without saying anything. He only lasts for a few minutes before he starts jiggling his leg and gulping his drink with a little too much fervor. Then he gives in and starts chatting away about how the ale tastes weirdly sweet and he has been seeking out one of his friends and thought the man might be here but he wasn’t and Jaskier wonders aloud about whether that meat in the stew is actually the beef the barman claimed it was because it seems a little too stringy.

She listens patiently, not responding but nodding along. Looking oddly peaceful. When there’s an opening for her to speak, she says, “I enjoyed your songs. Particularly the ones about the White Wolf.”

Jaskier preens under the attention. He also sees an opportunity. “If you like my music so much, maybe you would like a song of your own,” he says, taking another sip of his ale and pretending not to care as much as he does. “All it costs is a story.”

Malne doesn’t hurry to answer. She studies him. Takes a few bites of stew and chews them slowly. Jaskier raises his brows and waits in misery.

Finally, she says, “There’s no better way to get a story that to live one.” It’s a clear-cut invitation with a message he wholeheartedly agrees with.

The truth is that he enjoys adventures with strangers significantly less than when he’s with Geralt, firstly because he misses Geralt and secondly because he trusts Geralt to live and make sure that Jaskier also comes out on the other end with all his parts and most of his blood. But he already really likes Malne, likes the way she smells like herbs and sweat and how she seems comfortable everywhere she is, as if she’s absolutely certain she belongs, and her smokey voice and how she doesn’t look like he could burden her if he put effort into it.

Once he agrees to travel with her, she explains that she’s meeting with some companions on the other side of a forest well known for being infested with all sorts of creatures. She says the beasts aren’t bothersome enough for someone to pay for a witcher as they only really hurt those who wander into the woods, meaning that anyone who’s killed by the creatures was really actively taking the risk. Jaskier nods.

They part ways for the night but meet up again in the morning, refreshed and ready for their long journey.

Traveling with Malne turns out to be exceedingly pleasant. She proves to be a good conversationalist and truly appears to enjoy his music, making several requests as they go. They don’t run into too much trouble, though he does wind up climbing a tree to avoid a pair of ghouls that she slays, his eyes wide as he watches her move, already piecing together a song.

They come out on the other end of the woods and meet with her companions, who definitely have had a few adventures of their own that they’re happy to share over dinner, keeping the group’s mugs full of ale and laughter all around until they separate to sleep.

In the morning, Malne asks how her song is coming along and he hums a bit of the melody, tosses around lyrics, focusing on the parts that enthuse about her glory and grace, her steadiness. She smiles in that soft way and nods, says that she likes it, hopes it makes its way to her once it is finished.

Of course, not every adventure without Geralt ends with stories and sex. Sometimes the people he travels with are tired and angry and quiet. They hold their stories close or tell them bitterly. Jaskier follows them because he always wants to be there, he always wants to see, no matter how awful. Sometimes the people he is with get hurt and he has to put what he’s learned traveling with Geralt to good use. Sometimes they die and he’s left standing in a field of gore, or holding a limp hand. Often, the strange bard is no one’s priority and something gets a little too close.

Jaskier briefly cottons to a small party of traveling merchants. There’s no mission, and Jaskier isn’t collecting tales or actively searching for inspiration. It’s better in certain areas to travel in a group, and this one was kind enough to let him join them.

This is also the last time Jaskier travels with merchants, who, it turns out, draw out bandits.

He should have thought about it, of course, but he hadn’t wanted to be on the road alone and it had been a while since he and Geralt had gone their separate ways so he was getting lonely for conversation and companionship that lasts more than a night.

So out come the bandits and out come the daggers. Jaskier braces himself and hopes the merchants just let the bandits take what they want, but of course it isn’t so easy to give away your livelihood. A fight breaks out.

Unfortunately, it’s against his nature to just sit there and listen to people die. Jaskier inhales sharply and grabs the closest thing to him- a short but hefty stick from the burn pile. He’s still testing the weight of it when a man swings around the cart, one hand wrapped around a sharp blade that he swipes through the air, narrowly missing Jaskier, who yelps and stumbles away.

Jaskier swings his arm and slams his weapon heavily to the bandit’s skull. The stick cracks and so does the man’s head. It’s the worst thing Jaskier has ever seen. The worst thing he has ever done. He drops the stick in surprise and it’s all he can do not to retch. He hadn’t meant to _kill_ anyone. He’s a bard, for fuck’s sake, not a mercenary or knight or witcher or whatever else.

Jaskier groans and moves spasmodically until he’s crouching against the cart, feeling the horses’ unease in the rattling wood. He brings up his hands and presses the knuckles into his temples and stares ahead, only able to see the body and the clotted ooze escaping it. Brains, he thinks. Large pieces of skull. And all that blood, all that blood. And Jaskier did that. He clubbed a man.

He’s drawn from his thoughts rather abruptly when another bandit grabs him from the side and drags him away from the cart. A second bandit moves to stand in front of him. He has a stick in his hand and Jaskier’s chest tightens at how quickly the world moves to bring his own actions back down onto him. _Fair’s fair_ , he thinks, imagining his own skull caved in. The idea should have him begging for mercy, but he’s fallen into a fog, now, where he really doesn’t give a rat’s ass about anything other than the ringing in his ears.

The pleasant haziness breaks apart when the stick comes down and punches into Jaskier’s stomach. Jaskier slouches forward and vomits. The bandit holding him yanks him upright and the second bandit readies his stick for another wallop. Jaskier brings his hands up, shocked into disoriented action, and tries to shield himself.

There’s a holler, and then one of the merchants jumps from between the horses with a finely crafted dagger that he digs into the swinging bandit. Jaskier screams his frustration and writhes until he twists the arm of the bandit that is holding him. Jaskier shakes him off, kicking him hard but carefully in the stomach, thinking they’re even considering he’s going to have a bruise on his own belly.

The fight doesn’t last much longer and somehow the merchants walk away on the winning side. Jaskier dreams about spilled brains and the collapse of the man’s head under his arm- he imagines it like cracking an egg, little resistance and that easy snap, though he isn’t sure that there was any feeling to it at all.

Much later, Jaskier takes this awful story and carefully frames it into a plucky tune. Before that, though, he and Geralt meet up again and Jaskier sits before their campfire and starts to compose it. After a while, he hears the witcher shift and peeks up to see him pause his own work to stare intently at Jaskier. He looks rather unhappy.

“What’s the matter?” Jaskier asks, voice low.

Geralt purses his lips. “Did that really happen?”

Strange to realize that Geralt is actually listening, and closely enough to know the song is new and not of one of their shared adventures. Worrying that now he might have to talk about it.

“It did. And unfortunately, I haven’t started on my embellishments yet, so it’s an accurate depiction.” 

Geralt’s expression tightens and he returns to his work.

“Jealous?” Jaskier asks without really meaning it. Sometimes he can’t help but poke the bear, even when the bear is running in the other direction, avoiding traps. 

A raised brow. “Did you find bashing someone’s head in particularly enjoyable?”

Jaskier thinks again of bringing his arms down, the snap. How the man hadn’t made a noise, but folded down like a limp rag. Brains turning the dirt into sticky, pink mud. “No.”

Geralt nods but doesn’t drop his gaze. “Then there’s nothing to be jealous of.”

Neither of them speaks for a while. Jaskier doesn’t pick his lute back up. There are some things he can’t make lovely or silly. Not yet, at least.

After some time, Geralt sighs and says, “Sorry.”

“Mm.” Jaskier waves him off, feeling guilty himself. “Don’t worry, dear friend. I started it, after all.”

He watches Geralt inhale, slowly and fully, like he knows he’ll need full lung capacity for this conversation. Next time, Jaskier will just let him apologize so they can both move on. “Not that. I’m sorry you had to… that you were vulnerable.”

Jaskier blinks. “Ah, well.” He thinks, taps his fingers on his knee. “I’m not _regretful_. I knew he was going to- that I- I had every right, is my point.”

“You did,” Geralt says, nodding. There’s an intensity in his gaze that Jaskier can’t meet, so he refocuses his attention to his own hands, rubbing at the calloused tip of his middle finger with his thumb. 

“I’m not upset about it,” he insists. His traitorous voice comes out thicker than he intended, like he’s on the edge of tears. He isn’t. It’s just _difficult_. He’s _uncomfortable_.

“Hm.”

Geralt keeps staring. Jaskier thinks about getting up and moving, of going on a walk or slipping into his bedroll just to escape his gaze. But Geralt’s eyes aren’t judgmental, just concerned. Not unhappy with Jaskier, but for him.

Jaskier licks his lips and feels compelled to continue. “It’s just…well. I wouldn’t want to do it again.”

“No. I don’t want that, either.”

“I know I’m being silly. I was defending myself. What else was I going to do?”

“You did what was necessary.”

Jaskier exhales harshly. His eyes burn and he wishes they would stop, that his whole body would cool down and that he could move on and forget anything happened at all.

His words come quickly, all in a rush, tumbling over each other like rocks startled out of place and rolling downhill. “I just wish I didn’t have to think about it. About the…when I…you know. The feel of it. I’m not a violent person. I mean, obviously I’ve been in fights. You’ve seen me in fights.” He doesn’t know why he’s getting so defensive but it’s easier to be angry.

Geralt doesn’t challenge him, just nods like it’s that simple, and confirms, “I have.”

“But clubbing someone is different from hitting them. With a fist.” Jaskier makes a swinging motion that Geralt follows with his eyes, maybe imagining someone’s head on the other side like Jaskier is. Though, probably not. More likely, he’s judging Jaskier’s technique and preparing to make corrections.

Geralt sighs heavily. “It is.”

Jaskier drops his arms and links his hands in his lap. Tries to settle. Can’t. “You know I’m not squeamish. And it’d be lying to say I’d never wished harm on someone. Or wanted them dead.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt breathes. It should sound like admonishment, but it doesn’t. He says Jaskier’s name _gently_. The softness of it hurts. 

Tears fall down Jaskier’s face and he quickly swipes them away. “But I’m not…I don’t. Well, I clubbed a man. With a stick. And his head just,” Jaskier splays his hands out, “his brains just. Fuck.” He keeps wiping his face with the back of his hand before giving up and just swiveling so his back is to Geralt.

A long pause. Geralt doesn’t move, doesn’t approach or offer his touch as comfort. Jaskier can’t tell if it’s disappointing or a relief. “I understand, Jaskier.”

Jaskier just nods, tapping his feet and impatiently willing the tears to stop. They don’t for some time. Geralt stays silent, doesn’t comment on the futility of trying to hide what is plain to see, nor on Jaskier’s pitiful sniffling. They just wait it out together.


	8. Reunion

When Jaskier decides he’s done traveling alone or is tired of missing his witcher, he gets to work tracking him down. It is true that they do sometimes coincidentally bump into each other, like the workings of fate, and, on occasion, the witcher seems to seek him out. They’ve even made plans to meet at a certain place once this job or that contract is complete. But more often than not, they part with vague mentions of seeing each other soon and Jaskier winds up hunting his friend down.

He suspects, when he’s feeling particularly tender, that Geralt is leaving a trail for him to follow, that each breadcrumb Jaskier tracks has been intentionally placed. After all, many people go their whole lives without seeing a witcher so it follows that they might not be so easy to find, generally.

This time, Jaskier tracks him to a village where everything seems wet and soggy. The ground squishes under his boots and he steps carefully to avoid sliding around, cursing the mud and damning Geralt for leading him to such a rotten place.

He makes his way to a tavern, knowing that it’s always a good place to ask questions. On occasion, he has even walked into a random tavern and found the witcher sitting in a dark corner with an ale. No such luck today. Jaskier scans the area and finds it largely deserted of patrons, too early in the day for workers. Only a few people drink lazily, the chatter kept low.

Jaskier approaches the bar and gives the barmaid his most dazzling smile. She is unmoved, but does acknowledge him with a slight tilt of her head. 

He greets her and takes a seat. “This might seem like an odd question, but have you seen a witcher around? Or even a large, grouchy man with white hair?” Her eyes flicker with recognition as she hands over a drink.

“I have. His horse is stabled at the inn.” She gestures to the east and Jaskier nods, sipping and politely listening. “Probably not around now, though. Had to go a ways out of the village to take care of the beast.”

“Oh? What kind of beast?” he asks, curiosity peaked.

She grimaces. “Something’s been killing livestock. No one’s seen it just yet, but a few have heard it creeping around at night. And the animals. You can hear their squealing all through the village. It’s horrible- can’t sleep through the racket.”

Jaskier shudders. That does sound fucking horrible.

He stays at the tavern for a while longer, finishing his drink and ordering some fruit that he pockets before heading over to the stables. If Geralt is in the middle of a job, there’s no use trotting out into the woods looking for him. Especially when there’s some hungry monster roaming around. He’d hate for their reunion to be between witcher and half-eaten corpse.

The stables are nearly empty, making it easier to locate Roach. Same Roach as before, which is nice. He doesn’t know what he’ll do the first time he meets back up with Geralt only to discover that there’s a new Roach. Love her, he supposes. Geralt probably won’t appreciate him blubbering about it, but he _is_ very attached.

He eases up to her, clicking his tongue and giving her a good rub down, and is pleased to find that she recognizes him as well. Geralt has left her with a few saddlebags, though they’re hooked up off to the side, and there’s a dark blanket tossed over her back. Jaskier gives her nose a few quick kisses.

Apparently, whatever Geralt is going after was close enough that he didn’t feel the need to ride her out there. Makes sense if it’s sneaking into the village every night.

Seeing Roach is comforting, though. A solid confirmation that Geralt is around. Eagerness starts to seep in, and Jaskier can’t contain his broad smile. It’s been a while since he has seen the witcher and he’d been searching for him long enough to get frustrated. And a little concerned, if he’s honest. It’s true that every time they separate might be the last, and Jaskier would have to live the rest of his life without knowing what happened to Geralt, outside of rumor. Jaskier of all people knows how storytellers embellish. Then again, it’s also possible that Jaskier could drop dead any day from injury or illness, though he doubts the witcher feels the same anxiety about their parting that he does.

Jaskier gives Roach a chunk of apple, cheerfully talking to her as she munches on it, then makes himself a chair out of hay. He sits down and starts strumming his lute. It might be a long wait, so he does his best to get comfortable, glancing up intermittently to make sure he isn’t disturbing the horses too much. Jaskier keeps one ear to the entryway, knowing that he will either hear Geralt return to the inn or see him when the witcher inevitably checks on his horse.

He’s mid-song when he hears the telltale stomping and lifts his eyes to the stable door, setting his face into a welcoming smile. The wait hasn’t actually been so bad, probably not even a full hour, and when Geralt enters he looks surprisingly clean for someone that just slashed up some creature.

Jaskier has never been very suspicious of the witcher before and he figures he’ll get an incredibly simple version of the story once they’ve filled their bellies and had a drink or two. All part of the reunion ritual.

Geralt looks genuinely startled to see him, which is strange but delightful. Usually he’ll give Jaskier a cocked brow if the bard turns up seemingly from nowhere, but the longer they know each other the more common it has become for Geralt to give him a small, barely-there smile. A look Jaskier knows to be warm. He usually acknowledges him by saying, “Jaskier,” with a nod, like he had been expecting company. And, generally, he smells or hears Jaskier before he sees him.

Today, Geralt steps into the stables, sees the bard nestled by Roach, plucking at his lute, grinning and saying, “Why, this is the cleanest I’ve ever seen you!” and his brows furrow. Geralt’s mouth pops open and he looks absolutely affronted.

Jaskier blinks. This isn’t the greeting he expected and he’s starting to wonder if he’s done something to piss his friend off already. Geralt’s eyes flicker over him and Jaskier watches as he knits himself back together, shoulder dropping against the doorframe, apparently deciding to pretend Jaskier hadn’t somehow escaped his witcher senses and managed, after all this time, to get the drop on him.

Jaskier is about to ask if he’s well when Geralt steps closer, amused, and says, “You’ve just been waiting?” Jaskier realizes he is being teased and stands, primly returning his lute to its case and slinking the strap over his shoulder.

“I’m only here for Roach, actually.”

Geralt snorts at him and turns his attention to the horse. Jaskier can’t help himself and pats his friend’s back, the closest he is going to get to a hug. The witcher tilts his head to look back at him, and Jaskier is once more surprised to find his expression open and affectionate. Geralt settles one of his gloved hands on Jaskier’s shoulder and gently squeezes before returning to Roach.

It takes Jaskier a moment to recover before he starts chatting away. His mind must be really boggled, because it takes an entire conversation about an herbalist (she had found Jaskier’s songs particularly inviting and his bed particularly warm. Once their tryst was over, she supplied him with some special ointment she promised would ease old aches and pains, no matter how fierce. Jaskier suggests that Geralt should take it with him in the winter to see if it helps him and his family) before he realizes that the witcher is prepping Roach to leave.

“I thought you just got here?” he asks, cutting Geralt off mid-response.

Geralt pauses. “It’s been a few days.”

“Huh. The barmaid made it seem—”

A dismissive handwave, then Geralt gets back to readying Roach. “I’m tracking someone to the north.”

“Tracking? Who?”

“Another witcher. Someone I haven’t seen for some time.” It’s ambiguous, but Geralt is always cryptic about this sort of thing. About most things, really.

The idea of meeting another witcher, of seeing how Geralt interacts with another witcher, is exciting enough that Jaskier doesn’t worry if Geralt doesn’t want him there or if he is somehow invading something deeply personal. If Geralt didn’t want him to know, he wouldn’t have said anything.

Jaskier stands by while Geralt gets on Roach and they start down the road together, Jaskier idly plucking the lute and asking questions about witchers, most of which Geralt answers in the vaguest terms, and a few that earn him irritated looks or simple grunts, like Geralt is saying _Hmm, that is an interesting question_ or _I was wondering that myself_ even though Jaskier can tell he knows and just won’t tell him for whatever reason.

And it’s nice. It’s always nice being with Geralt, even when they’re doing something not very nice at all. Its better than when they’re apart, and it’s better that being alone and bored. And, scared as he gets, Jaskier loves adventuring.

They travel for a few hours before Jaskier talks Geralt into stopping, complaining that he’d already been walking all day and he’s sore and starving and _sure_ , it’s a waste of sunlight but dying on this road would be a waste of a bard. Geralt looks around, then nods and pulls into the trees, dutifully followed by a pleased Jaskier.

They set up camp and eat some road rations, bundled close to the fire. Eventually, Geralt goes out to check on their hastily-set traps and collect additional firewood while Jaskier fiddles with lyrics in his notebook, humming absently and smiling when Geralt returns triumphant with a dark furred hare.

They pass the evening pleasantly, chatting idly and going through their routines. Eventually Jaskier settles on top of his bedroll, too warm to crawl inside, and talks with Geralt, who answers back in a murmur. This is how Jaskier falls asleep; mid-conversation, his hands linked over his stomach and face up at the stars.

Then, Jaskier is startled awake. The fire has been smothered and clouds cover the moon, so he is chilled and in complete darkness. And someone is gripping his ankle. A spike of fear jolts him into action, and he howls, kicking out at whatever is holding him. It retaliates with a yank, and Jaskier is dragged further down the bedroll.

He struggles against it, screaming for Geralt, when the hand around his ankle tightens and the person at the end of it hisses, “ _Jaskier_.”

Jaskier immediately goes very still and quiet, his heart hammering away, embarrassed about the fuss he made and wondering what the hell prompted Geralt to do such a thing. His eyes twitch to the tree line and he listens hard, trying to figure out if there’s something out there.

After a moment, Jaskier turns his gaze back to the amorphous blob of Geralt, his eyes adjusted well enough now that he can make out his white hair and bright eyes, and whispers, “What’s happening?”

Instead of answering, Geralt crawls up his body, all the way up until he’s looking directly down into his eyes, pale strands of hair falling over and tickling Jaskier’s cheeks. Jaskier doesn’t really understand it, but he doesn’t mind either. He lifts his hands to hold onto the witcher’s waist, gripping to the cotton of his shirt and holding on.

Geralt grabs his wrists and presses them back down until Jaskier’s hands are returned to his own chest, and Geralt holds them there between them, canting his hips back to keep his balance as he hovers. Hot breath tickles Jaskier’s skin and sends a pleased shiver down his spine. Unable to help himself, Jaskier thinks _Oh, wow, he’s going to kiss me_. Right until one large palm presses down over his mouth.

Jaskier makes an unhappy noise, thinking this is some sort of joke about him never shutting up, even now, when he tries to reach up again and realizes that his hands are bound together, apparently done while he was distracted by the witcher’s eyes and the flutter of anticipation in his stomach. He pulls against the ropes and shifts under Geralt, who considers him a moment, turning back and staring at Jaskier’s kicking legs, before rolling off of him, releasing his mouth in the process.

Feeling absolutely childish, all Jaskier can think to say is, “Geralt?” because he’s been through the full flush of emotions by this point, including fear, affection, frustration and now confused fear, and he just wants to know what the fuck is going on.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Geralt stands, moving far enough away that Jaskier can barely make out his shape in the dark, can only hear him shifting things around in his bag, clicking his tongue at Roach. Hopefully at Roach.

Then he’s back, standing beside Jaskier, boots down by the bard’s hips. He grips the rope around Jaskier’s wrists and tugs him to his feet in one painful yank, then steadies him with a hand on his shoulder. Jaskier doesn’t pull away. He’s never been afraid of Geralt before and he doesn’t really know what to do with it now. Besides, he knows that he’d never be able to fight Geralt anyway.

Geralt stands just behind him, a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder, and gently guides him forward. It takes Jaskier a moment to orient himself and realize that they’re going deeper into the woods. His stomach clenches. Jaskier groans and stops so abruptly that Geralt runs into him and nearly sends him flying forward onto his knees. Geralt catches him with a sigh and pats him on the back almost comfortingly.

It just makes Jaskier want to cry. “Geralt? Geralt, stop. Let’s just stop for a second and…you can tell me what we’re doing. Alright? I-we- let’s just stop. I don’t want to- please, Geralt. Please? Tell me what’s going on. You’re really scaring me.”

Geralt marches him forward a bit and then turns Jaskier so they can face each other. Then he fishes around in his pocket and pulls out what appears to be a hanky.

“Geralt!” Jaskier shrieks, pushing his wrists forward to slam into the other man’s chest. It hardly seems to impact Geralt, whose mouth is pulled into a thin line, his eyes so soft, almost sad. It sends a shiver down Jaskier’s spine.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, voice even. “If you listen to me and do as I say, you’ll be fine. Do you hear me?” He waits for Jaskier to whisper a shrill _Yes_ before continuing. “I am going to blindfold you and then spin you around so you get disoriented. Then I’m going to leave.”

A whimper. “What?”

“Quiet. You can’t know which direction I’m going. Put your hands over your ears and count to one hundred, then you can remove the blindfold. I’ll know if you don’t. Then listen for Roach and make your way to her.”

“I don’t understand what’s happening!”

“I know. I’m sorry I brought you out here with me at all.”

His regret sounds so genuine it makes Jaskier ache. “Why did you?”

“I stole from a witcher,” he starts, and Jaskier looks at him questioningly. Geralt isn’t above looting, but he’s smart about it. And it’s hard for Jaskier to believe that he’d steal from one of his brothers. “Needed to buy a little time to get away. I knew he had more I wanted in the saddlebags and didn’t expect you to be there. Then I had to take you and Roach to keep you from sounding any alarms. It was a bad decision. Now I’ve caused us both more trouble than if I’d just taken the money and run.”

Jaskier’s mouth is suddenly very dry. He leans, trying again to pull away from whatever he’s looking at, this clever disguise. _Not Geralt_ , he thinks, unsure if this makes things better or worse. Not-Geralt tightens his grip with a sigh and Jaskier stomps his foot down in frustration. “Oh, _Melitele_!”

Tone pinched and nearly embarrassed, not-Geralt continues. “I think…well, when I saw you there, I wanted to be with you. Let my emotions get the better of me.” It’s completely disorienting to hear those words coming from Geralt and it nearly sends Jaskier into a bout of nervous laughter.

Done with his explanation, Geralt blindfolds him. Each touch of his hands on Jaskier’s skin sends a chill down the bard’s spine and spikes his fear. Once the blindfold is secure, not-Geralt places a hand on each shoulder and slowly turns Jaskier in a circle several times over. Jaskier can hear not-Geralt step around him, hands tapping out randomly to keep Jaskier spinning without allowing him to keep track of where he’s facing based on where not-Geralt stands.

He doesn’t stop until Jaskier is dizzy and stumbling. “Go on,” not-Geralt says, and Jaskier obediently does as he is told.

He presses his hands over his ears and counts to one hundred slowly, trembling all over and resenting his own cowardice. Unable to see or hear, disoriented and confused, Jaskier doesn’t think he’s ever felt more vulnerable, more exposed. For all he knows, not-Geralt is watching him, laughing at his naivete and pulling out a blade.

Jaskier says, “One hundred,” out loud, barely a breath, and pulls his blindfold up with bound hands. He swallows, then turns in a complete circle. It’s hard to tell in the darkness, but not-Geralt seems to have left.

A few post-panic tears spill out and he smears them away, sniffing loudly and doing his best to smother his emotions. Hard work for a poet, but he thinks he does well enough. He stands still and listens.

It takes a while, and fear starts to build in his throat again as he worries that Roach is going to be completely silent, a horse with the nerves to idle while Geralt wrestles creatures and returns with bloody heads. Nothing. Nothing. Then, faintly, a snort.

Jaskier gasps with relief and turns himself towards the noise, stumbling forward in the pitch dark. He swipes his bound hands before himself to feel for obstacles. Not-Geralt needn’t have bothered with the blindfold at all, apparently. Waste of effort.

After a while he stops, nervous that he isn’t walking in a straight line and has gotten himself off track by avoiding trees. Jaskier listens for Roach again. A few minutes pass before he hears her, and he only has to adjust his course a little bit.

Without a guide, it takes him longer to get back to camp than the march through the trees might justify, but Jaskier makes it. He sees Roach’s silhouette and yells out to her. She neighs in response, shifting around uneasily. Jaskier hurries to close the distance, then rests his hands on her side and presses his forehead into her ribs, quivering.

“Let’s get you back,” he murmurs, certain that actual-Geralt wouldn’t abandon Roach and definitely won’t take kindly to her being stolen.

Jaskier shuffles around until he finds his lute and bag, which he throws open to rifle around for a knife. He knows he has a dagger, and he finds it fairly quickly, then struggles for a full minute to find a way to cut the rope around his wrists without dropping the blade or cutting himself. It’s a slow process that Roach watches with mild interest. He’s only somewhat successful and winds up with several delicately weeping grazes.

Once he’s freed himself, Jaskier makes one final circuit around the camp, making sure all of his and whatever is left of Geralt’s belongings are packed up, then walks up to Roach. He runs his hand over her nose.

“Just this once, would you mind?”

He looks into her big eye and waits as if for a response, maybe to see if she’ll bite him or simply take off running. When she simply stares back, he pats her one last time and says, “Thank you, dear,” then hefts himself into the saddle.

They take the path back slowly, Jaskier exhausted from all the walking he has done, coming down from adrenalin, and not wanting to push Roach without knowing how much walking she has done in the last few days. He is quiet for a while, then he starts humming, tracing his fingers through Roach’s mane as they putter along.

Jaskier is starting to slump forward, pinching himself in an effort to stay awake, when Roach snorts. It startles him into wakefulness. He goes quiet and listens carefully; someone is walking along the path. Jaskier’s heart starts to thump, but he doesn’t change their direction or slow down. A shadow walks towards them from up the road, and then stops. Jaskier swallows. It’s Geralt, or not-Geralt. He can tell, familiar with the shape of him. Before they meet, Jaskier stops as well, gripping the reins and trying not to shiver.

“Are you stealing horses now?” maybe-Geralt asks, and Jaskier inhales slowly, unsure how to respond.

He settles on saying, somewhat stupidly, “No.”

A long pause. “Jaskier?”

The shape moves closer and Jaskier tenses. It’s him, it has to be. It’s Geralt. Not-Geralt wouldn’t be playing nice right now, he would have rolled his eyes at meeting the bard again so soon and then…and then. Well, Jaskier doesn’t know, exactly, what would happen then. Probably not another game of ring around the rosie.

Maybe-Geralt stands beside him and Jaskier looks down to study the blur of his face, thinking about perfect imitations.

Geralt is frowning. He wraps his hand around Jaskier’s ankle and says, “ _Jaskier_.”

Jaskier yanks back and Roach whinnies, kicking around until they both calm down. Jaskier ogles Geralt with wide eyes, ready to take off, when he takes in how genuinely discomfited the other man looks. It’s him, it has to be. _Please, please, please_.

Jaskier licks his lips and says, “You can be a real bastard,” even though it’s definitely unfair and probably very confusing.

Geralt considers this, then nods slowly. “Yes.”

Jaskier nods too, with significantly more vehemence than the witcher. “Help me off Roach,” he snaps, and Geralt hesitates only a moment before shifting forward to touch him, help him swing down.

They stand very close, face-to-face. It’s disorienting. Jaskier says, “You’re you,” like an order.

Geralt furrows his brows. “What the fuck is going on?” It’s nice to be the confusing one, for once, despite the circumstances.

Jaskier sighs, relaxing into the belief that this is Geralt. He thumps his hand on the witcher’s chest before taking a few steps back. Geralt twitches, inches closer then stops and lets Jaskier wander away. Understanding, he inspects Roach while Jaskier crouches near the tree line, running his hands through his hair and allowing a few embarrassing tears to flow before groaning and plastering on a smile. Jaskier sweeps back to Geralt, who clearly isn’t fooled but won’t call him out on it either.

Geralt lets Jaskier ramble a little bit, talking about how he hopes Geralt didn’t do anything hasty in his panic, like give up his room at the inn because Jaskier would really like to go back to town and sleep in a real bed, and he really, really doesn’t want to camp out right now because _that’s a whole fucking story now, Geralt, I’ve had a night worthy of legend_.

Geralt watches him silently through this, then asks, “Are you alright?”

Jaskier nods, because he is. He is genuinely alright. This is real and Jaskier is alright.

Geralt nods, then grabs Roach’s reins and starts to walk back in the direction of the town. Jaskier doesn’t ask why he isn’t riding Roach, and he doesn’t complain that he’s exhausted and would like to ride her if the seat isn’t occupied, deciding that he’s probably giving her a break for good reason.

Geralt says, “Tell me what happened.” And, well, Geralt normally doesn’t ask for stories from him, so Jaskier launches into it, softening some parts, emphasizing others. He’s mortified to admit that he had no idea that it wasn’t Geralt, and doesn’t mention that for a moment he thought they were going to kiss, or how beautiful he thought Geralt was in that moment, his hot breath cresting over Jaskier’s cheek as he held him in place.

At the end of the story Geralt hums, watching the road ahead. Jaskier feels ashamed, and a little sad, and even kind of amused about the whole insane thing because, honestly, of course this shit was going to happen.

“You’re not hurt?”

Jaskier frowns, not sure why Geralt is asking about this again, why he’s fixating on it. Jaskier would have said if he was hurt, surely Geralt knows that.

“No. He was…well, he wasn’t nice, exactly. He just…he was acting kind of like you.” That earns him a sharp look and Jaskier waves it off. “I know you wouldn’t do that, but in the moment, I believed it was you. It was confusing. But he didn’t hurt me, except maybe a bruise.” Geralt stares at him doubtfully, and Jaskier sighs, “What?”

“I smell blood.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says, letting out an airy laugh and pulling up his sleeves to show where he nicked himself with the knife. Geralt inspects without touching then nods, maybe a little relieved.

“We’ll take care of it at the inn,” Geralt says, and Jaskier agrees. He doesn’t like the way Geralt’s salve smells, doesn’t like the idea of having that smell travel with him for the next few days, but he dislikes infection more.

They make it back to the inn and Jaskier follows Geralt up to his room, which has, understandably, one bed. Jaskier hopes he's willing to share. It’s not usually an issue but Geralt lost his pay for this last job and probably some other stuff he’ll have to replace, and he had to run all over the place tracking down Roach.

Geralt sets to work removing his boots and shuffling through his bags for bandages and salve. He’s clean, if a little sweaty, probably returned to his room and bathed before going to get his money and realizing that something was going on.

“Take off your doublet,” he says, and Jaskier obeys. Geralt finds what he needs and Jaskier folds his top and sets it aside, standing with his arms out and a lascivious look on his face. Geralt rolls his eyes but doesn’t quite hide the quirk of his lips. “On the bed.”

They back up until they’re both sitting on the end of the mattress. Jaskier offers each wrist in turn for Geralt to look over. 

“It sounds like a doppler,” Geralt says, seemingly out of nowhere.

Jaskier squints. “Say again?”

“The creature. The other me. It sounds like a doppler.”

“Ah. So, what does that mean exactly?”

Geralt explains and Jaskier listens intently, mentally checking off each fact against what not-Geralt did. At the end, he says, “It’s good to know I wasn’t just being a fool. Though, he wasn’t perfect.”

“No?”

“Like I said, you’d never do…all that. And he said some things that were pretty out of character for you.” He doesn’t know why he brings it up because he doesn’t really want to tell Geralt what not-Geralt said to him. It was sweet and emotional and lovely and completely spoiled by the fact that it was said by some gooey trickster-creature. Jaskier inspects his bandages until Geralt grunts at him. “Well, I don’t want to embarrass you, Geralt, it was very…not you.”

“Just tell me.”

“Let’s see… he said that he liked having me around or something. To be honest the conversation was a little stilted at that point because I was tied up and he was marching me through the woods in the dark, so…” He shrugs and Geralt thinks this over. 

Then says, “Hmm. Are you ready to sleep?”

Jaskier laughs at that and nods because he is fucking exhausted. Geralt stands and dims the fire until the room is dark but still warm, and Jaskier peels off the remainder of his clothes and changes into a sleepshirt. Jaskier crawls into bed, thinking that he won’t be banished tonight, and after a while Geralt joins him. They lay back to back, not quite making contact but not avoiding it either. 

Jaskier doesn’t shut his eyes for a while, just stares into the dark and listens to the witcher breathe. He waits until the room seems warm and still before he slowly rolls over to watch Geralt, glad to find that his eyes are closed and he appears to be sleeping.

Jaskier stares at him for a long time, not sure what it is he’s waiting for. What he’s looking for, if anything at all. The easy rise and fall of Geralt’s chest is soothing, however, and focusing on it lulls Jaskier until he falls asleep.

The next day, Jaskier wakes up to the click of their room door closing. He blinks, grumbling confusedly as he rubs the sleep from his eyes. When he realizes that the sound was Geralt leaving, his heart stutters and he worries that Geralt has ditched him. But then he notices that Geralt has left most of his belongings here with Jaskier, who calms instantly, annoyed at his own paranoia.

He rolls out of bed with a sigh, still not feeling quite recovered, and goes through his morning routine, changing out of his sleep clothes and cleaning up. A cursory inspection of the little cuts on his wrists finds them itchy but alright, stretching into an uncomfortable burn when he rotates his hands. 

He’s about to head down for breakfast when the door swings open again. Geralt looks at him, down and back up, before revealing that he has brought breakfast with him. They settle down at the tiny table and start to eat. Jaskier is startled by his own ravenousness.

Its hard not to stare at Geralt, who bites an apple and returns his regard in kind, apparently unbothered. They usually don’t scrutinize each other like this but Jaskier feels justified, and if he’s going to look it’s Geralt’s right to look back. 

Finally, Geralt puts his apple down and pulls a velvet bag from his belt. Jaskier cocks a brow as Geralt holds out the bag and says, “Here,” with a little shake of his hand. Jaskier takes it and pulls out a short, ornate dagger in a sheath.

Jaskier says, “It’s lovely,” because he knows it’s for him. Geralt wouldn’t buy something like this for himself, and he definitely wouldn’t present it like this if it wasn’t for Jaskier. And it _is_ lovely. And sharp. There are little amber-colored jewels and blue stones at the hilt.

Jaskier goes to poke the tip with his index finger. Geralt frowns. “Don’t. It’s sharp.” He stretches his hand out like he plans to take the dagger away.

Jaskier asks, “Are you trying to tell me something?” while swinging the blade around a little in the air. Geralt makes a noise and _definitely_ wants to take the knife now. Jaskier pulls it in closer to his body.

“I’m trying to tell you that you need to learn how to defend yourself.” Geralt has set his shoulders, a determined line between his brows.

“I know how to use a dagger, Geralt. I _have_ a dagger.” Jaskier doesn’t remind him that he has defended himself plenty well in the past without a dagger. With a stick. And frankly, he doesn’t want to do that or anything similar to it again, especially not to someone he cares about, or even someone who looks a great deal like someone he cares about. Other people can keep their violence, he’s had enough. If he wants someone hurt, he’ll just hire an assassin.

“You don’t use it,” Geralt says, and for a moment Jaskier thinks the witcher has somehow read his thoughts. Then it becomes clear that what he actually means is that Jaskier didn’t use the dagger _last night_ on anyone but himself, and that wasn’t intentional.

Jaskier suddenly becomes very interested in the placement of the stones along the dagger’s hilt and busies himself tracing over them. “I haven’t had the opportunity.”

“No?” Exasperated. That’s fair.

“I told you, I was completely convinced by the doppler’s performance. He was you.” It’s the exact wrong thing to say.

Geralt’s mouth pulls into a grim expression and he crosses his arms over his chest, leans forward with a snarl. “If I acted like that, I’d expect you to use the dagger on me.”

Jaskier drags his fingers through his hair, then presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. His voice comes out whinier than he meant it to. “I’m not going to stab you.”

It’s a silly thing to ask for and, frankly, pointless. There is no world where Jaskier wins a fight against Geralt, or really anyone who is trained. His talents lie elsewhere, he is not a humble man, regardless of what the song says, but his own methods of self-defense involve talking, running, hiding or, worse case scenario, desperately flailing a weapon around until it catches on something. 

Geralt exhales his frustration, but his voice is soft. “You should, in that situation”

“Oh, wow,” Jaskier groans, then drops his hands and looks at Geralt sardonically. “Fine, next time you’re an arse, you get the dagger.”

“Jaskier, take this seriously,” Geralt snaps. His hands are pressed flat to the top of the table, probably to keep them from bunching into fists. 

“You didn’t do anything to deserve getting stabbed. _They_ didn’t, I mean.” Jaskier corrects himself with a headshake. He doesn’t mention that the dagger wasn’t close enough to him, anyway, because even ignoring the futility of it, he’s not sure he would have stabbed Geralt unless it seemed like the only option, and he still might have to think it over.

“He bound your arms.” Geralt has closed his eyes, looking for all the world like he’s trying to reason with a child. Good- Jaskier hopes he’s annoyed. Jaskier isn’t loving this conversation, either.

He quirks his mouth and leans in, tone flirty. “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been—”

Geralt puts a hard stop to that line of conversation, nostrils flared. “ _Jaskier_.”

Jaskier waves his anger away and makes a few averted jabs with the dagger, aimed at the air. “Anyway,” he says, “I know how to use a dagger.”

Geralt inhales slowly, doesn’t release the breath until Jaskier puts the dagger down again. When he speaks, it’s deliberate and calm. “This one is silver.” _Oh_. “There are many creatures that react when they touch silver, so it doubles as a means of identification.”

Jaskier, of course, knows the merits of silver already. Geralt explained his different swords years back when they first started traveling together, and Jaskier has followed him on enough hunts to have seen it in action and to name many of the creatures he’s referring to. It seems like a pretty hard line, though, to suggest that Jaskier just higgledy-piggledy uses it to detect any of them.

“So, should I just start poking everybody with it? Maybe as part of my introduction?”

Geralt doesn’t laugh. He slumps just a little, looking defeated. “I don’t want you to be fooled again.” He speaks so softly and sincerely that Jaskier’s chest aches. He pulls back his shoulders and surrenders.

“Fine,” he says, carefully tucking the knife back into its sheathe and securing it. “I’ll _wear_ it.” It’s as much as he’s willing to give right now, but Geralt nods, temporarily mollified, and they drop the conversation.

Before they leave, Geralt shows Jaskier how to hook the sheathe to his belt, and Jaskier doesn’t tell him that he isn’t a complete moron and can figure out the fastenings on his own, thank you. Because he understands to some degree that this is how Geralt cares, that this is his way of keeping Jaskier safe, even when he isn’t around. They get it set up and Jaskier adjusts his doublet so that the knife is completely hidden, then spreads out his hands theatrically, pleased with himself. Geralt looks pleased too, so it’s good. It’s enough.

*

When Jaskier travels alone, he carries the dagger in the sheath on his belt, as hidden as he can manage it. Later, Jaskier buys a silver ring. When he gets nervous, he will gently swipe it across the suspicious party’s hand and watch. 


	9. Love

Jaskier realizes that he is in love with Geralt in bits and pieces. It happens with a distinct warmth that blooms in his chest when he catches Geralt tapping his foot while Jaskier is performing at a tavern, so minute that the witcher must be doing it unknowingly. There’s an exhilarated buzz when Geralt laughs with him, a low noise that rocks his shoulders, that almost taken aback gleam in his eye. Sweet affection rushing over Jaskier like a tide in the quiet moments while Jaskier plucks at his lute and watches Geralt clean his swords or grind components for his potions, their conversation hushed in the dull night, illuminated by campfire. All easily explained away.

Jaskier has had friends, though none like this. Transient friendships and amicable acquaintances. He doesn’t have much experience with enduring relationships, but he’s certain this is that. It is true that friends, genuine friends, love each other like family. There’s a special intimacy to it, he’s certain. Something he has witnessed many times during his travels and that he yearned for in his lonely childhood. And so that must be what he’s feeling now.

Except, there are other feelings. Jaskier is struck with a sting of jealousy when Geralt visits a brothel. He can’t deny the heat in his belly when Geralt manhandles him, when the witcher is slick and relaxed in the bath, flushed and pleased. Lust, he thinks. Jaskier is very familiar with lust. It’s practically his resting state, and not something he’s used to suppressing without at least exploring the possibility. But he purposefully doesn’t explore it, can’t let himself. There’s a grain of something ticking around the back of his mind, a new ache between his ribs that holds him back. Fear. A ponderous want.

What does it in the end is the absentminded composition of a song he never sings. Jaskier hums the melody for days, working it out on his lute. When he starts knitting an image in lyrics, Jaskier describes Geralt in detail. He writes about his white hair and amber eyes, his strength and grace, his voice like a growl, low and steady except when anger makes it hoarse. Geralt’s bravery and kindness, generous and enduring. And when Jaskier puts it all together he nearly chokes, grateful that he’s alone because this is a love song. He’s written Geralt a love song. A saccharine, romantic, desperate love song. He puts it away, scratches the words from his notes and pushes it to the back of his mind because. Well. Because that’s a little much for him. Right now.

And then they wind up in the mountains, hunting around for a griffin nest. It took some persuading on Jaskier’s end to be allowed to come, a series of speeches ending with him simply refusing to be left behind, promising that he would follow Geralt regardless, knowing full well that the witcher wouldn’t just abandon him in the mountains. During the hike, Geralt tries to frighten him by explaining that if a griffin gets its claws on Jaskier and flies away with him there’s really nothing Geralt will be able to do about it, and that griffins like to eat their prey slowly while they’re still alive and very aware of what’s happening. And sure, that’s horrible and terrifying, but Jaskier absolutely needs to see this beast, needs to see exactly how Geralt fights it, because it’s certain to be interesting at the very least, and will likely be magnificent to witness.

They make their way up the mountain. It’s going as well as could be expected, Jaskier’s legs ache and his clothes are dirty from him clumsily tripping or sliding on insecure ground, when they reach a dilemma. At some point, the twisting stone path they’re following up the curved mountain collapsed and was replaced by what is now a very rickety-looking swinging rope bridge, lined with aged wooden planks to walk along. Jaskier is not confident that it will hold him, let alone Geralt.

Geralt hums and presses a foot down, applying some weight. Jaskier grabs the witcher’s belt like he’s going to be able to keep him from falling, and Geralt steps forward onto the bridge. It whines under him but doesn’t splinter as Jaskier worries it will. Geralt gives it a moment, then bounces. The ropes swing so Geralt has to grab onto the frayed rail, but seems otherwise unbothered.

He says, “It’s sturdy enough,” and, not even attempting to make himself lighter, makes his way steadily across the bridge. Once the fear lodged in Jaskier’s throat eases a little, he finds his friend’s confidence somewhat reassuring.

Jaskier lets go of Geralt’s belt to grab the rails, and doesn’t let Geralt get too far ahead of him before he steps out as well. The bridge hardly even creaks under him, though his stomach still drops when the ropes rock and swing. He moves much slower over the planks than Geralt, and it’s not long before the witcher is nearly all the way to safety and Jaskier is still not quite halfway. His fingers are wrapped tightly around the loose handrail, and the skin of his palms burns as he slides them forward. Each step sends a swooping fear through his guts but he doesn’t stop.

It’s ridiculous, but Jaskier thinks _I really would follow him anywhere_. He looks up at Geralt, startled by his own swell of emotion, and his heart suddenly pounds. There’s nothing to be done about it; he loves Geralt in every way he can without being his.

Geralt glances back at him with a frown. He watches Jaskier shiver and says, “You won’t fall unless you act like a moron, Jaskier,” apparently misunderstanding why the bard’s pulse has picked up. Jaskier grins and laughs in a way that has Geralt pause, both of them on this swinging bridge while Jaskier cackles. Geralt just stares.

Jaskier feels like a fool, but perhaps one of the happiest fools on the Continent. He’s in love with Geralt. In love. Really, truly in love. It’s the absolute fucking worst thing he’s every done to himself and he’s never been warmer, never felt so good and desperate for more. Another idiot bard falling for his muse. Again. Of course, of course. What else was he going to do?

They make it to the other side of the bridge, slightly breathless, and Geralt lays a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder, lingering for a beat longer than necessary. The griffin hunt is just as glorious as Jaskier hoped, though he is somewhat distracted by his dizzying realization. Geralt looks at him oddly for the rest of the day, a line between his brows.

For a short while after, maybe relieved to finally understand how he feels, Jaskier luxuriates in his love, lets it flood him each time he looks at Geralt. He grins and dotes on the witcher, earning questioning glances when he laughs a little too easily. Floats around stupid in his own delight as he imagines and pretends, allowing himself to dip his toe into a hopeful delusion of possibility.

And then.

Reality has to set in eventually, and for Jaskier it happens in bed. The inn they stop at, the only inn in the small village, has a single available room. No big deal since they often share anyway, mindful of their funds and what they’d rather spend coin on. “The room only has one bed,” the innkeeper says a little anxiously. Jaskier and Geralt shrug; they’ve shared beds before. It’s fine. The innkeeper sighs, “Suit yourselves, then,” and gives them their key. Geralt requests a bath and they head up to their room.

The bed, it turns out, is not meant for two people. It’s barely big enough for one Geralt-sized man. They stand in the doorway staring at it for a drawn-out moment. Geralt hums. Drops his things and starts to remove his armor. Matter settled.

They’ve been on the road for a while and Jaskier has been whining about his need for a real bed, which was really a coverup for the fact that it’s started to get cold out so camping is becoming more difficult. Winter really is becoming something he dreads every year, both because it starts off with him freezing his ass off in the woods and then ends with him no longer cold wherever he’s planted himself, hopefully, but missing Geralt for a few months. Geralt got thrown around more than usual on the last hunt and definitely needs a soak followed by a night of rest.

So, they’re going to figure out a way to cope with whatever this is.

The bath is filled, the innkeeper’s teenage children taking several trips with steaming basins, and Jaskier adds oils until the water is foggy and sweet-smelling. He leaves Geralt alone to soak, plucking at his lute and closing his eyes, searching for inspiration and listening to Geralt’s even breath.

Eventually, Geralt hops out and reheats the water with a Sign. Jaskier stretches, puts his lute away and starts removing his journey-worn clothes while Geralt gets dressed for sleep. Jaskier dips his fingers into the bath to test the temperature. Igni always makes it a little too hot but he slips in anyway, groaning loud enough that Geralt snorts on the other side of the room.

Jaskier lounges until the water cools to a more comfortable temperature, then scrubs himself down a bit, washing his hair and getting the dirt out from under his nails. He gets out feeling better than he has in some time, and dries off and pulls on his nightclothes.

Then he turns to look at the bed. It’s still empty; Geralt has been sitting near the fireplace on a stool, flicking through a book. Jaskier tilts his head to read the cover, curious. Behind the Great Veil. Sounds spooky.

Jaskier looks between Geralt and the bed. It is shoved against the wall adjacent to the fireplace, close enough to keep the occupants warm but far enough that it’s not too hot. Several folded quilts are stacked at the end. Perilously inviting. Still very small.

Jaskier asks, “Do you think we’ll fit?”

They’ve been in this situation once or twice and usually one of them will wind up on the floor, sometimes based on circumstance, other times based on a coin flip. Jaskier knows that by rights it will be him on the floor this time because Geralt is achy and Jaskier isn’t a total ass. But he really, really wants to sleep in a bed after so long on the road.

Geralt considers, then shrugs. He says, “We’ll see.”

Jaskier nods, smiling a little, and scuttles over to the bed. He unravels one of the blankets and lays it out, pleased that it smells clean and doesn’t release a horde of insects. Then he crawls on top of the blanket and reclines, limbs tossed about like he’s been thrown and landed here. His skin starts to cool as he basks in the relative softness of the hay-stuffed mattress and the comfort of the threadbare quilt beneath him.

A quick glance over reveals that Geralt is still at the table reading, running a thumb over his stubbled chin as he concentrates. Jaskier watches silently, then asks what the book is about. Geralt answers quietly, not lifting his eyes, and they have a hushed conversation about some sort of specter delightfully called a Hym, while Jaskier fades in and out of wakefulness.

Eventually the book snaps shut and Geralt crosses the room. The sudden sound prompts Jaskier to open his eyes, lifting himself up on his elbows when he sees Geralt approaching.

There was a similarly hopeful situation a few years back where the bed was small but neither of them wanted to give it up. They both tried to squeeze onto it, pressed in close and swearing as they shifted around and struggled to get comfortable, or at least find a position they could maintain all night. Jaskier got a knee to the groin, which resulted in him giving Geralt’s teeth a good shoulder-check, causing Jaskier to laugh so hard he rolled off the bed and didn’t bother returning.

Funny as it was, Jaskier doesn’t want a repeat. He scoots around to protect his privates, earning a snort from Geralt, who grins broadly as he remembers the same incident. The witcher places a knee on the bed but doesn’t continue downward. Jaskier watches him map out a plan.

After a few beats, Geralt makes his decision. He nudges Jaskier’s hip until the bard gets the message and regretfully slides off the bed. Geralt then gets up and slides under the blanket, yanking it down until his back is pressed against the wall. Jaskier waits impatiently as Geralt moves around and gets comfortable.

Satisfied, Geralt says, “Alright, come on,” and holds up the edge of the quilt so Jaskier can join him.

Jaskier sticks to the limit of the bed, right on the end of the mattress. He attempts to settle himself in a way that gives Geralt some wiggle room, though the effort is futile, A third of Jaskier is already hanging off the bed, meaning that if either of them is going to fall out it will be him. Fair enough.

They lie still for a few minutes before Jaskier realizes that he’s engaging his core just to stay in bed, his fingers gripping the sheets. He sighs, disappointed, and starts to slide away from the pleasant warmth, resigned to his fate. Before he gets too far, Geralt’s heavy arm comes down like a wooden beam and hooks around Jaskier’s waist, stopping him from leaving.

Jaskier rests a hand on Geralt’s wrist and sends a questioning look over his shoulder. The witcher’s mouth is set in a determined line. Geralt says, “Just slide back,” and, when Jaskier doesn’t move fast enough, simply tightens his arm and drags Jaskier back against his chest.

Jaskier wriggles around. “I’m still falling, Geralt.” If his voice is a little tight, it’s because Geralt is squeezing his ribs, not because Geralt’s arm is hot and Jaskier can feel his bare chest through his own thin nightshirt. They’ve slept like this before, so it’s no big deal. It’s completely normal.

Geralt presses even further into the wall until he is flush against it, bringing Jaskier with him and earning an extra half-inch to save the bard from the floor. They’re very close. Very, very close. Geralt is warm, but not overbearingly so. Jaskier feels the steady expansion of his ribs with each inhale and can’t help but adjust his own breath to match. Like this, he can smell the soap Geralt used and the bath oils Jaskier himself tipped into the water, along with the simple Geralt-smell that never goes away. Like woodsmoke.

Jaskier’s heartrate picks up as he considers spending the rest of the night like this. He thinks about how it shouldn’t be an issue but it feels like one. This was nothing before but a nice show of trust and affection and now it’s cuddling, it’s being held, it’s being pressed against the man he loves and it means something to him now, dammit. _Fuck_.

Geralt pats Jaskier’s ribs where he squeezed him and it’s very gentle, like an apology, like he thinks Jaskier is reacting like this because Geralt hurt him.

“This isn’t going to work,” Jaskier grits out. Geralt sits up a little so his pale hair spills over Jaskier’s shoulder. Jaskier almost tumbles away, and there’s a little panic in his pattering heart. He tries again to shuffle forward out of the bed.

This time Geralt lets him go and then Jaskier is staring at a half-dressed Geralt in bed, displeased and warm and _oh no, oh no_ , it’s worse. This might actually be worse.

Jaskier says, “Alright, well that was a good effort. We tried. No space. I’m just going to take a pillow and make a bed over here.”

“Jaskier.”

“It’s nothing, I have no problem making this smallest of sacrifices for a dear friend.” Geralt studies him, clearly aware that Jaskier is acting weird for some reason but not asking why, thankfully. He rolls into a sitting position, grabbing the second quilt from the end of the bed and catapulting it at the bard, who catches it with a shout. Then he hands over a pillow, much more gently.

Jaskier nods his thanks and then gets to work, aware that Geralt’s eyes are tracking him around the room as he does. It takes him a moment to decide where to put the nest, choosing a spot near the fire but not so close that his wayward limbs will kick or toss his bedding into the flames. He’d hate to wake up on fire. His bedroll is tucked away beside his bag and he gladly rolls it out, unleashing with it a few dead leaves and the unmistakable smells of campfire and horse hair. It’s more calming than nature has any right to be to a city man. Once it’s in place, Jaskier fluffs his pillow and shakes out the quilt, finding this one just as agreeable as the first.

He’s eyeing the patchwork and wondering if he could surreptitiously stuff it in his bag when Geralt huffs and melts down into the mattress. He spreads out, long legs nearly hanging off the end, the bottoms of his feet peaking from under the quilt. It takes a lot of self-control for Jaskier to not swipe a finger across them, wondering if the witcher is ticklish. Probably not.

Jaskier says, “Sweet dreams, Geralt.” Geralt hums, which is plenty response.

Of course, Jaskier realizes that this just won’t do. It can’t be like this. At the end of the day Geralt doesn’t return his feelings, and he never will. That’s simple enough. Jaskier’s love is unrequited. Geralt is definitely not in love with someone he can barely acknowledge as a friend, and their relationship isn’t in that foggy aggressively-push-away, hate-sex, actually-I-want-you-around-forever territory.

Jaskier has to deal with this before it becomes more of a problem. This is his life, and it’s an amazing thing, a terrifying and great thing that he gets to be part of. He’s not going to ruin it for himself because he can’t handle his own heart. He knows he can’t kill the feelings- wouldn’t want to if he could. So, he just tries to shift them to the side, stop letting himself sink into them, squash those bubbling thoughts and retrain himself.

Sure, he wants Geralt, he wants to be with Geralt, but they’re friends first and foremost. Jaskier focuses on that.


	10. Fear Part One

Looking past his sometimes-outrageous claims, Jaskier does know he isn’t a brave man. He doesn’t charge into battle, or even don armor to suggest he is willing or able to. Any proximity he gets to Geralt’s hunting is solely for the passion of his art and the need to gather details to properly garnish his songs and satiate his curiosity. Jaskier talks his way out of danger when he can, flees when he can’t, and, failing that, feels certain he will die.

He also has the self-respect to realize that he isn’t a total coward. Pride has a habit of loosening his tongue and urging him to speak out of turn. Curiosity pushes him closer and closer to beasts he has no right getting near. Being with Geralt has never troubled him, though he knows the same stories as everyone else (mostly untrue). And, while violence doesn’t appeal to him in the slightest, he has been known to get involved in a fight or two.

Jaskier dances right on the precipice between terror and eagerness, not wanting to die but also desperate to live as fully as he can.

Sometimes, Geralt seems amused by the things that frighten Jaskier. Other times, he looks at the bard expectantly only to furrow his brow when Jaskier doesn’t show the response he was waiting for.

*

Jaskier startles awake. His whole body is clenched, arms pulled in to his chest where he can feel his heart jackrabbiting. It’s early morning, and he stares up at the pinkish sky, counting his breaths and easing himself down, down, down from another nightmare. A hard swallow, then he sits himself up. He knows before looking that Geralt is already awake and aware of his fit.

“Whew,” he says, putting on a smile and turning so Geralt can see that he’s recovered. Geralt meets his eyes steadily from where he sits on a fallen tree. There’s a little bowl on his lap that he grinds into with a pestle and several empty bottles lining the ground by his feet. Early morning alchemy.

Jaskier stands and stretches his arms upward, groaning when his back gives a satisfying crack. Then he starts on his morning routine, wandering into the brush to relieve himself, then returning to their camp to freshen up. Geralt’s eyes seem to follow him through it, and Jaskier can’t decide between self-consciousness and blatant exhibitionism.

He winds up setting his hands on his hips and facing Geralt, letting the challenge bleed into his tone when he says, “Did you just finally realized how fascinating I am, or do you have something to say?”

Geralt takes this in stride. Jaskier is rarely able to surprise him and has stopped expecting to. By now, the witcher has already mixed his ingredients and heated them, and is waiting for the mixture to cool so he can dispense it into the bottles. He looks considerate before finally looking away from Jaskier and refocusing on what he was doing before.

“Your dream.” His voice is low enough that it takes Jaskier a moment to figure out what he said, and if he wanted to, they could both pretend he didn’t say anything at all. Unfortunately, Jaskier has a hard time leaving things alone, even when it’s at his own expense. 

“Yes?” Jaskier tries not to fidget. “What about it?”

Geralt sighs. He taps his fingers against the little pot to check the temperature then, deciding it’s cool enough, carefully hooks his fingers around the handle to lift and maneuver it over the bottle rim.

Jaskier is so focused on watching him that he almost forgets they’re having a conversation until Geralt says, “It was a nightmare.”

Jaskier forces a laugh. He’s always been good at that; his fake laughter is smooth and fluttery. Really charming. “Wasn’t very discreet, was I? But you know me, can’t keep quiet about anything, and when I get scared, I like to let everyone know.”

“You should…” Geralt pauses, his frown deepening. Jaskier isn’t sure if it’s because he’s multitasking or if he’s uncomfortable with the conversation. Likely both. “You should tell me what it was about.”

Jaskier pauses, a little nonplussed. “Nothing interesting,” he says. He moves closer now, sitting cross-legged in front of Geralt with the tools settled between them. He’s not used to Geralt asking him to talk about his feelings, and while he’s embarrassed about the nightmares, he also wants to urge Geralt on, not make him think that it’s bad to ask. “I’m not a seer, you know, so there’s no need to worry.”

Geralt makes a face at him, and Jaskier winks.

“I’m not worried,” Geralt grumbles. Some of his potion spills over his knuckles and he wipes it off into the grass with a frustrated huff.

Jaskier licks his lips. “Just curious?”

“It’s supposed to make you feel better.” Geralt’s mouth pulls into a line and he doesn’t look at Jaskier, feels around for his corks so he can stop up the bottles. Jaskier watches him search, knowing that Geralt can almost certainly see them and is just looking for something to do with his hands. Jaskier passes him one of them anyway.

“That’s very compassionate of you, Geralt,” Jaskier says, his voice honied. Geralt glares at him, takes the cork rougher than necessary. It makes the bard chuckle. “I’ll tell you. But you can’t laugh.”

“Are your nightmares usually so comical?”

“Are yours?” Jaskier asks primly, arching a brow.

Geralt doesn’t react for a long moment, instead he pretends to have finally located the rest of the corks and slowly collects them. “I don’t have nightmares,” he says without meeting Jaskier’s gaze.

“Sure.” Jaskier wipes at his eyes, remembers the old saying about trying to squeeze the blood from a stone. He’s never been a particularly negative person and is generally annoyingly persistent- a trait Geralt can attest to- but he also has a musician’s awareness of timing. At least when he’s paying attention. He leaves the matter of Geralt’s nightmares for later. “I’m being serious, Geralt. If you laugh at my nightmares and make me feel like an idiot, it’ll only worsen the situation. And then what would the point be? So, don’t laugh.”

“I won’t.” Geralt’s tone is serious. Probably more serious than it needs to be for a conversation about nightmares. Jaskier appreciates it anyway.

“Alright then.” Jaskier breathes for a moment, thinking back to his nightmare and trying to motivate himself to talk about it. Geralt, thankfully, keeps his eyes on his work, though Jaskier thinks he should be done with it by now. “We were walking along a path. The air was crisp with Autumn and the sky was beginning to dull into a midday haze. Darkening blue with sunshine-gold along the horizon line. You were riding just a little way in front of me, like you do, and my feet were beginning to ache from our journey.” 

“Detailed dream,” Geralt hums skeptically.

“I’m a poet, Geralt. Hush.” Jaskier resettles himself before continuing. “Getting tired, I called out for you to slow down. You didn’t respond. So, I called out again. _Wait, Geralt. Wait._ But you didn’t, just kept trotting along. Roach was carrying you farther and farther away until I was sure I wouldn’t be able to follow.”

Now Geralt does look up at him, frowning. “So, I left you?”

Jaskier waves him off. “I could still see you, so I didn’t give up. At this point, though, I was thoroughly annoyed with you. Absolutely steaming. I picked up my pace and kept calling for you to stop, and then finally you did. I was so relieved it was hard to stay angry, but I was putting some effort into it.”

“Of course,” Geralt nods, though his face is more relaxed now. He wipes his bottles to make sure there’s no remaining spill down the sides, then starts arranging them in his bag.

“And then,” Jaskier shifts nervously. Clears his throat. “Then we were attacked. With swords. It’s hard to describe a fight from a dream, you know. You’re in one place, then another without purposefully moving. Fast and slow. There’s no pain but I was so certain…it seemed so real. I suppose it always seems real. I would know; I’ve been attacked by bandits before so this was fairly accurate.” 

Geralt smiles dismissively, briefly looking up to make sure Jaskier sees him roll his eyes. “We won’t be killed by _bandits_ ,” he sneers. In his own weird way, this is meant to be reassuring. Jaskier doesn’t comment that sneering is nearly as bad as laughing, but raises an eyebrow.

“Geralt,” he says easily, tone quirked with good humor. Unheeding. “I could trip as we walk, hit my head, and die by uneven root. So, bandits aren’t out of line for me.”

Geralt’s eyes are like hot pokers. “Not with me here,” he growls, setting his bag aside with enough force that Jaskier hears the glass clink inside. 

“Sure,” he says, slower now. Trying to process why Geralt suddenly seems angry with him. “But I _do_ travel alone. Fairly often.”

Geralt stands. “Then you should be more careful.”

Then he’s packing up the rest of his belongings and situating their packs onto Roach, who looks between them with half-hearted interest. Jaskier follows him, the skin around his face feeling hot now.

“Right. You know that if I get murdered it’s not my fault.”

The look Geralt shoots him seems to say _isn’t it?_ which, alright. Jaskier does have a habit of overstepping and agitating and having sex with the wrong people. But that’s hardly justification for murder.

“I’m done talking,” Geralt snaps, turning on Jaskier when he realizes the bard is trailing behind him.

Affronted, Jaskier scoffs. “I’m the one who should be upset about my nightmare, not you.” 

“I’m not upset,” Geralt moves away from Jaskier and Roach. It looks like he’s fleeing, like Jaskier’s words are physical attacks.

Suddenly, seeing his friend look like he’s being hunted down instead of argued with, Jaskier understands. Something warm blooms in his chest. He approaches Geralt slowly, and the man watches him with a firm frown but doesn’t bolt. When Jaskier is less than a foot away from him, he lets the tension fall from his shoulders and reaches out to pat Geralt’s arm.

“You could just say you’re worried about me,” Jaskier says, very lightly. “It would do more good than being a cock about it.” Geralt doesn’t respond right away, just stares at him with a closed off expression. _That poor heart_ , Jaskier thinks, _always being smothered. It must be the worst feeling in the world_.

Then, Geralt says, “There’s no reason to worry. Nothing is going to happen to you.” Which is nearly the same as him saying that he won’t let it, which makes Jaskier feel wonderfully special, even though Geralt can’t bring himself to say the words. Maybe it’s not so important to say anything at all. 

“I worry about you, too,” Jaskier says. Lets it be as simple as it is. No shame at all, no reason to be uncomfortable. It should be clear, by now, that he cares for the witcher, that the other man is very important to him. Unlike Geralt, he is very vocal about his affection whenever possible, imbues his songs with adoration and pride. He wants Geralt to feel loved by him, even if Jaskier knows better than to tell him how much or in what way, exactly.

Geralt brushes this off. “Even less cause to be worried for me,” he says, stepping back and away from Jaskier’s hold. Jaskier lets his hand drop and gives himself a moment before stepping back into the conversation.

“That’s enough talk about my mortality, thank you.”

The thing is, Jaskier has complete faith in Geralt. He has learned by now that if he’s patient, Geralt will always return, even when townspeople and aldermen tighten their hands on their purses or wipe their tears and claim that he’s gone, that they waited for him but he never came, that they saw something bite or eat or tear at him.

Jaskier worries, of course, because he can’t help it, but he also knows that Geralt is made of stronger stuff and that he is brilliant and strong and trained for this, so he’s absolutely not dead. He’s coming back.

Jaskier would know if he was dead, surely, deep down. So, he has faith.

But you can only clean gore from someone’s clothes, stitch and bandage them and watch them get thrown around or held in the grasp of beasts so many times before the images start to sink in. The sight of Geralt hurt and in danger burrows into his nightmares, along with the normal cast of characters and cruelties he normally endures. 

Great as Geralt is, he does get hurt. Fairly often. And Jaskier’s only comforts are the potions and the fact that he is there to do whatever he can to help. And that Geralt has lived so long for good reason.

On one memorable occasion, Geralt is off tangling with a wyvern while Jaskier waits back at camp with Roach. There are few contracts Geralt doesn’t let him tag along for (with a few exceptions, if Jaskier can make himself obnoxious enough), and clawed things that fly are high on the list. When Jaskier pushes, Geralt only shakes his head and asks what he thinks he can do if the bard gets carried away. Jaskier doesn’t know what he’d do if something took Geralt, either, but saying so doesn’t sway the witcher.

It’s a long wait. The last location of the wyvern was still a hike away, and Geralt has to do the job and hike back with a head, so Jaskier doesn’t expect him to return for some time. He worries around the camp, doting on Roach for a while before sitting down with his lute and trying to work the nerves away with composition. It’s not very effective, but anything is better than just sitting around waiting.

Jaskier jumps when a stick snaps behind him, lurching around with his lute tucked close to his chest. It takes a moment for him to register that it’s only Geralt, dragging the head of the beast behind him and shuffling into camp.

“Oh, you scared me!” he gasps, setting his lute aside and standing to meet the witcher. Geralt grits his teeth and shrugs, dropping the wyvern head carelessly to the side. Jaskier stares at it, dripping gore and filthy with dirt and sticks. “It’s smaller than I expected.”

“Not too small,” Geralt grumbles, and finally turns so Jaskier can see his back. The armor is slashed to hell, and Jaskier’s stomach clenches when he finally notices how stiffly Geralt is walking, how pale he is.

“You’re hurt!” Jaskier snaps, setting upon Geralt before the witcher has time to flee. He grabs Geralt’s shoulder to steady him and get a better look at the damage, but lets go when the other man flinches away with a hiss.

“It’s nothing,” Geralt insists, trying to angle himself so Jaskier can’t see. But there’s blood leaking down, seeping into and staining the back of his breeches. Standing this close, Jaskier can _smell_ it, gets it on the tops of his boots when it drip, drip, drips from the wound.

“Yeah, let’s just sit down for a second.” Jaskier steers Geralt to the fire and gently pushes him down.

It speaks to the severity of his discomfort that Geralt doesn’t fight him on it, lets himself be directed and doesn’t fuss when Jaskier starts undoing his buckles. Jaskier helps him peel off the armor, then the torn shirt. Geralt’s breathing is calm and even, with the exception of a few hitches and growls when his shirt catches.

Jaskier bites his tongue. He’s not a healer, and the wounds look serious enough to need one, at least if Geralt was a normal man. Two long tears across his back, angled diagonally over the spine. The skin is lifted and peeling back in ragged, dark flaps. Blood oozes out sluggishly. 

Jaskier doesn’t know where to touch. He doesn’t _want_ to touch. 

He clears his throat and Geralt says, “Bad?” Jaskier nods before he realizes that Geralt doesn’t actually have eyes in the back of his head and he doesn’t want the witcher turning his waist to see him.

“Let me grab…Swallow. And. Swallow.” He stands stiffly and goes to Roach’s saddlebag, a frantic buzz working up and down his body as he shuffles through Geralt’s potions. He finds the right one and holds it tightly before returning to Geralt. He crouches before the witcher and hands over the potion. Geralt takes it with a nod. When he uncorks the bottle, Jaskier notices that his hands are trembling. He squeezes Geralt’s knee, then shifts again to sit behind him.

Geralt takes a few gulps, then hands the bottle back to Jaskier. “Pour it on the wounds,” he says, and Jaskier hurriedly does as he’s told. It sizzles and smells, like the potion might be burning the flesh back together. Once the foam stops popping, however, the wound looks like it’s only improved a little.

Geralt reaches a hand back and starts to assess the damage by feel. Jaskier winces in sympathy, watching his fingers rub along the wound harshly, a glut of blood pouring out when he twists his body around.

“It’ll need stitches,” Geralt sighs. “Get my kit.”

Jaskier hurries back to the bags and rifles around. It takes long enough that Geralt must realize that Jaskier doesn’t actually know where he keeps this kit and instructs him on where to find it. When Jaskier returns and hands the pouch to Geralt, Geralt doesn’t take it. He looks at Jaskier meaningfully.

“Jaskier. I’m not that flexible.”

Jaskier has to think about it for a moment. When he understands, he darts his tongue over his lips nervously, shaking his head. “I don’t know how to do that.”

“You’ve seen someone sew before,” Geralt says. He doesn’t sound annoyed like he should, doesn’t snap about Jaskier being lazy or silly. Just lets his eyes drop shut for a long moment. When he opens them again, he says, “You’ve patched holes in my clothes.” 

Jaskier’s mouth falls open. “That’s fabric. Not flesh. Two very different materials.”

“It’s not all that different,” Geralt says. Jaskier very much doubts that’s true.

But Geralt looks horribly sallow and he really can’t reach so. Jaskier’s just going to have to get to it.

He moves to stand behind Geralt and take a look at the wounds again. The bleeding has slowed but it’s still bad. If Jaskier had to guess, it looks like it’s mending itself with the help of the potion, which makes him wonder if they just wait it out, maybe this will be completely unnecessary.

After Jaskier stares for a while, Geralt says, “It’ll be easier if you clear some of the blood away first.”

“Of course,” Jaskier whispers. He takes a deep breath, then hurries to pour some water on a cloth. His hands are shaking, now, and he tries his best to steady them while he wipes away Geralt’s blood. Cleaning the skin makes it look less grizzly, but only slightly.

Then he opens the kit. Pulls out a curved needle and dark thread. The thread is thicker than what he uses to patch clothes, which makes sense. It would be bad if it snapped. The tools look so ominous now that he wants to toss them away, wants to beg Geralt not to make him do it. Just wait.

It takes a few tries before Jaskier manages to thread the needle.

Before now, his main task after hunts was to fetch whatever potions Geralt barked at him, if he needed anything at all. Sometimes he helps wrap a bandage or rub salve on a wound. Now he is faced with this, ragged flesh and dark, dark blood. He is afraid to touch Geralt, afraid of making it worse, of hurting him more.

Reluctantly, he forces himself to settle a hand on Geralt’s lower back, where the skin is unharmed. Feels the lift of his ribcage as his friend inhales. Makes himself get to work.

Jaskier carefully tries to adjust the flaps of skin so that they line up, listening to Geralt inhale in through his nose, out between his teeth. He pushes the needle through Geralt’s skin and the witcher’s breath hitches but he doesn’t move or shout at Jaskier, so he keeps going.

He keeps going and going and going.

At some point his vision blurs and he shifts around to dab his eyes with his rolled-up shirt sleeve, embarrassed to be crying when he’s the one hurting Geralt.

When he’s done, he wipes the blood away again, unsure if he did a good job with the stitches but deciding that it looks to have done the job.

His hands are shaking and the blood is really _all over_ him. Dotted around the front of his shirt, some on his pants. Under his nails, in all the little creases of his hands. Jaskier’s whole body is rattling, like a million little earthquakes beneath his skin. He has seen Geralt’s blood, has gotten other people’s blood on him in fights, monster blood has even ruined some of his clothes. He’s had his own blood spilled on more than one occasion. But it’s different like this. It just is.

Jaskier sets the kit aside. “Are you okay?” he asks, careful not to touch Geralt, now. Geralt hums in response, but doesn’t move. Neither does Jaskier. They sit perfectly still for a while, Geralt breathing and Jaskier watching.

Finally, Geralt rises and turns to look at Jaskier, who crosses his arms across his chest, tucking his hands under and out of sight.

Geralt studies him for a bit and asks, “Alright?”

A pause. Then Jaskier nods and says, “You?” even though he’s already asked and received an answer. Geralt nods back at him and keeps staring. Jaskier loves attention but he does wish he would stop looking at him at this moment.

As if hearing his thoughts, Geralt turns his focus to the tree line. He tilts his head, listening for something, and for a terrible moment, Jaskier is certain they’re about to be attacked and he really doesn’t think he’ll be able to take it.

“There’s a stream.” Geralt says, lifting a hand and pointing to the west.

Usually, Jaskier would need some explanation for the seemingly scattershot comment, but this he completely understands. He gets to his feet and starts off in the indicated direction, feeling lightheaded and somewhat frantic. Geralt follows behind. The witcher has already regained some of his color, but he walks stiffly and grimaces when his skin pulls.

They go like this to the stream. As soon as Jaskier can see the water, he starts tearing off his clothes, abandoning them in stained heaps as he hurries along. They’ll never be wearable again, so fuck it if he loses them.

He doesn’t hesitate before trudging into the water. He doesn’t mind how icy cold it is, doesn’t take his time or crack a joke or complain, doesn’t take a peek or flirt when Geralt strips behind him and wades in. He drops down completely until the water is above his head, rushing around him and muting the outside world. Bubbles pop out of his ears and nose and rush to the surface. Jaskier doesn’t emerge until his chest spasms, then starts rubbing his hands and forearms. He takes careful, controlled breaths until his skin is flushed from his own scrubbing, not Geralt’s blood.

There’s some splashing and then Geralt is standing beside him and turning Jaskier to face him and he stares right into Jaskier’s eyes like he’s taking stock. Then he brings up his wet hands and streaks them across Jaskier’s face. Cleaning away blood, Jaskier realizes when some of it runs onto his lips and he tastes it.

“There,” Geralt says, stepping back.

Jaskier doesn’t let his lip wobble. “Thanks. Here, let me.” He washes away whatever remains of the blood that’s dried on Geralt’s skin, some of it his and some the beast’s.

Once they’re both clean, Jaskier follows Geralt out of the water and they sit on large stones, letting the sun dry them before they get their clothes on. Jaskier pulls on fresh clothes as quickly as he can, then helps Geralt get dressed with minimal stretching and twisting. That night, Geralt sleeps on his stomach by the fire while Jaskier anxiously watches. He’s still sore in the morning, but in the next few days the wounds heal completely and he’s good as new besides some scarring, though Geralt notes that it could have been worse.

Unfortunately, that’s not the only time Jaskier has to care for Geralt’s wounds, though most of the time it’s just bandages and potions. Like everything else, it gets easier.


	11. Fear Part Two

The town they reach is small enough that Jaskier could run several laps around it without getting winded. Geralt quickly smothers any excitement Jaskier feels about a full night in a real bed with a firm _We’re passing through_ , but the bard nags him into at least stopping for a drink.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, there’s a furrier in the tavern looking to hire. He’s nervous and vague on the details as he explains that something has been causing trouble for travelers on the road out of town. One of the local boys had been on a hunting trip and was found days later, guts spilled on the trail. Geralt agrees to take the job.

They finish their drinks, then start out. The road is quiet and lined with blue flowers that emanate a dull but pleasant scent. Nothing jumps out to eat them, and there’re no obvious signs of distress where Jaskier would assume people were commonly attacked.

Jaskier frowns. “Do you think the old man was being honest? Didn’t seem very forthright to me.”

“Honest enough.” Geralt looks back at Jaskier before stepping off the road into the trees. Jaskier takes a final look at the flowers before following. “Nerves are a normal reaction to witchers.”

They wander around, finding the area where the furrier said the boy’s body was found. As far as Jaskier can tell the area is wiped of any evidence of the event. Still, Geralt sniffs around while Jaskier watches, skin crawling at the idea of something jumping out at them, unlikely as it is.

After a while, Geralt faces Jaskier, his nose wrinkled distastefully.

“Uh oh. Bad news?” Jaskier asks, licking his lips and surreptitiously taking a step closer. It would be embarrassing, if not for the fact that Geralt steps closer as well.

As he moves, Geralt scans the surrounding trees. “Hmm. It’s not the kind of animal I thought.”

Jaskier is still trying to untangle exactly what that means when there’s a whipping noise that sails straight past his ear. Geralt grunts as something snaps against his torso. An arrow that breaks and falls uselessly to the ground, unable to pierce his armor.

Jaskier’s mouth pops open with a little “oh” of surprise, and then Geralt is grabbing and whirling him around so his back is against a tree and Geralt is standing in front of him.

Before Jaskier can ask any questions, the brush before them shifts and several people dressed in leathers step out into the open, with a few others remaining in the tree line, where their brown and green clothing nearly blends them into the foliage. It’s almost a relief. Jaskier knows a bunch of mooncalves won’t be able to do much of anything to Geralt, other than irritate him. Except, two of them have rather sharp glaives trained on the witcher, and there’s a crossbow aimed right at his head and then two swords if he manages past all that.

A man steps forward, his arms loose at his sides and a pleasant expression on his face. He’s dressed the same as his companions, all loose fitted earth tones. He wears several rings, however, and his hair is neat and clean, so he doesn’t seem to be struggling through life in the wilderness. Jaskier immediately hates him. Snide bastard.

“I understand our approach was alarming, Witcher, but we have no qualms with you.” His voice is clear and smooth, the kind that should be heard from a stage. He tips his head at Jaskier, eyes taking in the bard carefully. Sizing him up. Jaskier tenses. “Believe it or not, we’re only here for the bard.”

Which is really, really not something Jaskier ever expected to hear from a mercenary.

A brief pause, and then Geralt glances at Jaskier, maybe checking to see if he recognizes these people. He doesn’t. Geralt sighs.

“That _is_ surprising,” he says, sounding put out. Jaskier rolls his eyes and snorts.

“Again, we aren’t hankering for battle here. Just need the bard. I’m sure you won’t mind, Witcher.” The implication is clear; witchers don’t have the capacity to care about people, so Geralt can’t possibly care what they do with Jaskier. No need for trouble. It makes Jaskier grind his teeth, and he starts to say something to the point of them being _mindless, gossiping fuckers lacking the ability to think critically or independently,_ when Geralt hums.

“Unless you’re planning on hiring him, you have no business with the bard.”

The leader sighs, his easygoing appearance briefly slipping as he looks around at his group, mouth pulled in a thin line.

“I suppose that leaves us with no other options but to take him,” the man says, lifting his hand in a careless wave. This seems to be a signal, and the archers lift their bows, the swordsmen unsheathe, and the glaive-wielders steady themselves. Geralt pulls out his steel sword and plants his feet.

There’s barely enough time for Jaskier to register what’s happening before the fighting begins. Geralt moves lithely, blocking and slashing as well as he can against the number of enemies. Too many, surely, for even a witcher to handle on his own. Geralt can barely step towards the swordsmen before he has to dodge a glaive, can’t take the time to attack when he needs to snap away flying arrows.

Jaskier presses himself back against the tree, clutching his lute strap. His pulse is thumping madly in his ears, hands clammy with nerves. It seems impossible, absolutely, obscenely impossible.

One of the glaives breaks through, jabbing out at Geralt’s middle. Jaskier nearly screams, but stops the noise and strangles it when Geralt shifts out of the way and catches the smooth length of the pole under his arm. The witcher tightens his hold and then yanks the bearer forward, bringing a fist up to smash into the man’s nose. The man makes a choked noise, then gurgles out blood before Geralt brings the fist up again, knocking it against his chin and then dropping the freshly unconscious man to the ground. Geralt lets the glaive roll away, steps over and towards his next focus.

With one less fighter on the field, Geralt finally manages to meet a sword. The woman charges forward with a howl, and Geralt returns in kind. The sound of their clash is bone-rattling, sets Jaskier’s teeth on edge. He watches them slash and perry, the woman grunting loudly when Geralt sets on her with his inhuman strength. Arrows continue to fly, but Geralt moves fast enough that they can’t aim for his head, only manage to stick his armor. The points imbed in the leather, but the stems seem to snap with the impact, like Geralt is truly made of iron.

Geralt adjusts his grip, crowds up to the woman and brings the hilt of his sword down on her. She screams and drops to her knees, throwing up her arms to defend herself. No use. Geralt slams his weapon down and she crumples.

The witcher is straightening, bringing his blade up to deflect several arrows, when a second swordsman clambers up behind him, weapon raised. Now Jaskier does call out, though Geralt twists around fast enough that he doubts his warning was necessary.

As Geralt and the second swordsman come to blows, the second glaive jabs out and hits Geralt hard in the back, shoving Geralt forward and breaking him out of his stance. Geralt pushes the glaive hard with one hand, the other lifting his sword to parry a blow from his enemy’s blade. The archers continue to nock their arrows, less to cause harm, more as a distraction, a constant irritation. Geralt tries to hold onto the glaive without losing his bearing with the swordsman while simultaneously maneuvering around to avoid getting an arrow through the skull.

Jaskier’s eyes flicker away for just a moment, catching sight of the leader. The man is standing off to the side, watching the battle with rapt attention, seemingly unconcerned about his fallen and more interested in how it will all play out. Jaskier’s stomach clenches and he looks back at Geralt.

Perhaps it’s foolish. It’s absolutely foolish, actually. But Jaskier can’t watch Geralt do this on his own.

Jaskier takes a deep breath and then grabs for his dagger, his hands shaking around the hilt. His whole body is in a cold sweat and he can’t quite catch his breath, but he tightens his hold on the weapon and steps away from the tree, setting his eyes on one of the men with a glaive. That’s as far as he gets, however, before a hand grabs at the hem of his doublet and yanks him back. Jaskier yelps, his head thumping against the bark, and his dagger slips away. He tries to pull away, but another hand reaches from behind the tree, securing a firmer hold on his arm, and pulls him around.

He juts his free arm out, grabbing the man’s chin and pushing it back. The man grunts but doesn’t relent. His knee slams forward into Jaskier’s gut, and the bard nearly bites his own tongue with the rib-snapping force of it. He slumps forward and his attacker easily turns him so Jaskier is faced away and he can wrap his arm forward around his waist and hold Jaskier against him.

Jaskier is given no time to recover before the man shoves him out from behind the tree. Their feet are so close together that Jaskier stumbles, trying not to catch his heels on his attacker’s toes, clutching on the arm holding him in place, attempting to loosen its grip but unable to. Impatient, the man grabs one of Jaskier’s arms and wrenches it back roughly, jarring a cry out of him.

Hearing this, Geralt whips around, his eyes nearly wild. He steps forward, sword already in hand, refocusing his attention on the man holding Jaskier. Taking advantage of the distraction, one of the bandits swings out their glaive with a cry, snapping the blunt end against the back of Geralt’s skull hard enough that Geralt reaches up and grabs his head with both hands. Jaskier can see from here that Geralt’s eyes are slightly unfocused, his mouth open in a groan. Before he can rise, the glaive comes down a second time.

Jaskier can’t help but scream, because there’s blood, stark against white hair, and Geralt slumps forward, very still in the grass. The bard struggles and kicks back at the man holding him with renewed energy, calling out for Geralt, who remains face-down, unmoving. Jaskier’s ears ring and his chest hurts and he needs to get over there and make sure Geralt is okay, make sure that these bastards haven’t done any real harm. Make sure that Geralt is going to get up. He needs a potion, he needs Swallow.

Unfortunately, if Geralt was knocked down by these people, Jaskier doesn’t stand a chance.

A couple of the mercenaries step forward, tapping Geralt with their boots to make sure he isn’t going to charge up at them. Satisfied, they get to work moving him. It takes several of them to drag him back, leaning him against the same tree Jaskier had been behind moments before, where they sit him up. They tie him with several layers of rope, clearly hoping it’ll prevent him from escaping if he wakes up.

Watching this, Jaskier catches sight of something glinting in the grass near the tree and carefully doesn’t stare at it.

It’s good that they’re worried Geralt will wake up. Reassuring. Still, Jaskier’s heart is jackrabbiting and he can’t quite catch his breath, panting and trembling as he is directed forward. Head injuries are serious and he’s never seen Geralt knocked out cold like this, especially not by humans. It’s disturbing, and Jaskier gnaws on his lip with concern for the witcher. 

One of his attacker’s companions joins him and he finally loosens his grip on Jaskier a little. If it was just him, Jaskier would try to break free and run. But he can’t now that they have Geralt. One of them holds Jaskier steady while the other ties his hands behind his back, then they do the same with his ankles. Once that’s done, they stand on either side up him, each taking him under an arm, and then drag him closer to Geralt, where he is deposited on the ground rather carelessly.

Jaskier quickly looks Geralt over. His hair is dark with blood, but not a worrisome amount. The head wound is probably already healing. His breath is deep and even, like it is when Geralt meditates. So, he’s going to be alright. Jaskier thanks the stars for mutations.

The apparent group leader steps in front of Jaskier, staring down at him for a moment before dropping into a crouch.

“Do you know why we’re here?” he asks with what seems to be genuine curiosity. It makes Jaskier hate him even more that he acts like a normal person.

“Some misplaced sense of justice, probably.”

The man laughs, and it’s an irritatingly congenial laugh. The intoxicating kind that makes a person desperate to produce it again. With fine wrinkles around his eyes, like it would be easy to do, like he’s careless with his laughter. Dammit.

“Surely you remember your recent refusal to attend the naming day of Lord Breer’s firstborn son. This has been understood as a personal slight, and I’ve been tasked with changing your mind.”

Jaskier blinks. He does remember the exact noble the man is referring to and he’s pretty sure he also remembers that they parted with the lord seething and saying something to the point of Jaskier needing to learn something about respect. But Geralt had been just two feet away at the time and, to be honest, having a big witcher with him tends to make him brave, so he’d said something funny and waved the noble off before leaving. It _had_ been funny, whatever he said. Even Geralt laughed.

That had been months ago.

“It wasn’t a slight. I was busy, as your employer well knows. I can’t just drop one job for another. Someone’s always pissy. I’m sure you know how that is,” Jaskier says in a hurry, raising his brows like this is a simple little thing with a simple little conclusion.

He’s lying, of course. He hadn’t had another job lined up, he just really got a bad feeling from the noble, rightly so, and didn’t want to have to entertain him.

The man nods along as Jaskier rambles, then says, “That does sound familiar. I hate to deal with unhappy customers.”

Geralt twitches and groans, shifting around against his restraints. Jaskier can’t help but look over and is rewarded with his friend looking back at him, expression furrowed. He’s confused, but his eyes are clear and focused. The knot in Jaskier’s stomach loosens a little. 

The leader promptly slams his fits into Jaskier’s teeth. The bard is thrown by the force of it, his head rolling back. He would fall completely without the hand that clasps his shirt to keep him upright. There’s an odd buzzing around his gums, like all of his teeth are shivering, and a flush of blood that coats the inside of his mouth and dribbles between his lips.

“Uck,” Jaskier burbles, struggling to refocus on the man before him. He’s wriggling his fingers around like the punch hurt _him_ and Jaskier can see that he wears a blue-jeweled ring that is now unpleasantly colored with his own blood.

Geralt snarls and snaps his teeth like a wolf, leaning forward against the rope. Jaskier looks at him dazedly when the witcher yells, “Enough!” His voice is like a cannon in the open space, but he is largely ignored, the only response being an additional sword directed at his temple.

Yes, Jaskier is scared but he’s also pissed. He inhales shakily and looks back at the leader. Spits. The red ick breaks across the man’s face, centered just below his cheekbone and then speckled as far as his nose. Jaskier doesn’t really know what he expects. Maybe the man will punch him again, or they’ll get into some sort of skirmish that results in some of the man’s company charging away from Geralt, maybe giving him enough time to wriggle free.

The man only wipes away the spit with an amused snort. 

“Look, lark. There’s another option.”

“Oh, fuck,” Jaskier snaps, exasperated, “let’s hear it, then!”

Again, the man laughs. Jaskier takes the time to run his tongue over his teeth to make sure none of them are loose or missing. It’s some sort of miracle that everything seems firmly in place. 

“All my employer wants is for you to rescind your rejection and perform at the naming day free of charge.” As he speaks, the man seems to notice the state of his jewelry for the first time and absently wipes it clean on Jaskier’s trousers. “Once you’ve agreed and fulfilled your duties, your transgressions will be forgiven and everyone can walk away from this, no hard feelings.”

Jaskier wants to throttle the man and tell him that he can shove his transgressions up Lord Breer’s flat ass. But then he glances over at Geralt, at his darkened hair and the arrowheads stuck into his armor. The witcher is practically shaking with agitation, nostrils flared and eyes set like hot pokers on Jaskier.

Jaskier thinks. Then sighs. “I have conditions.”

“Jaskier!” Geralt snaps, and there’s some commotion from the tree and a smatter of warnings from several of the man’s company. Jaskier doesn’t look over at him, now. Stays focused.

The man doesn’t look either. “Cute,” he says, seeming more amused than irritated. Jaskier plows on.

“First, the witcher will be left behind. Alive. Second, I want to check on his injuries before we leave.”

The truth is that Jaskier doesn’t have a foot to stand on. At this point, the man could just as easily snap his fingers and either take Jaskier away by force or have him killed for refusing. Jaskier is banking on the hope that the man doesn’t actually want to kill anyone, or, more likely, gets paid more for bringing along a cooperative and slightly traumatized bard than a dead or rowdy one.

The man considers, studying Jaskier and tap, tap, tapping his fingers in a line on his knee while he decides. Then he glances over at Geralt and says, “There’s no reason to bring him. And no easy way to transport him anyway.” He waves at two of his company, a muscled woman and a male archer with two short braids hurry over. They quickly get to work untying Jaskier’s ankles. His hands remain tied, but he is manipulated around until they are in front of him. 

Watching Jaskier cautiously roll around until he’s on his knees, the man adds, “Besides, you’re a bard, not a healer.” Fair enough, as the man can’t possibly know how often Jaskier helps Geralt with his mending. And it’s true that Jaskier’s actual knowledge of medicine is limited to _stop the bleeding, give potion._

Jaskier shuffles awkwardly over to Geralt, who watches him approach with an odd look. It takes a near-comical amount of time for Jaskier to crawl to him and he huffs frustratedly when he’s finally knelt before the witcher.

Jaskier gives him a weak smile and then shifts around so he’s just to the side of Geralt. He gets the man to turn his head away so he can get a better angle to study his scalp. Carefully, he lifts his trembling hands and parts Geralt’s hair here and there so he can look at the damage. The broken skin has already melded together in a seam, and the blood has started to dry.

Jaskier wriggles further behind Geralt so that he’s almost hidden. Then he brings his knee down hard on a root and sprawls dramatically on his side with a strangled yelp. Geralt tries to twist and look at Jaskier, but the rope doesn’t allow enough mobility for him to see. The bard lets his palms slide along the ground, then sits up with a groan and massages his leg.

Jaskier spits some blood and then shimmies around to check Geralt’s pupils, though he doesn’t really know what he’d be looking for, or if the same rules apply to Geralt’s mutated eyes, especially since he has witnessed the witcher purposefully alter them to see in the dark. He adjusts until he’s in a relatively comfortable position, then rests his hands on either side of his friend’s face and takes a good look at him. Geralt’s expression is pinched.

Jaskier breathes out an uncheerful laugh. “My company has never been sought after so aggressively.”

“You can’t go with them.” Geralt whispers, eyes so intent it almost hurts to meet them. Jaskier soothes a thumb over his cheek, then slowly turns the witcher’s face back and forth, unsure what sort of medical assessment he’s pretending to do.

“I’ll figure something out,” he assures, moving in closer to Geralt, who makes a face at him. Jaskier does his best not to roll his eyes downward. “Worry about yourself.”

Jaskier continues to scoot in until his hip is pressed flush against Geralt, who blinks but doesn’t look down. There’s an understanding there, though, that reassures Jaskier enough that he busies himself digging one of the arrowheads from Geralt’s armor, making sure there aren’t any more serious wounds hidden somewhere.

“Are you dizzy? Or nauseous?” He asks, tossing one of the arrowheads aside and cursing silently when he nicks himself on it. Jaskier stops messing with pointy things and brings his hands back up to feel along the backs of Geralt’s ears. 

“No.” Very soft. Geralt’s fingers are sliding along Jaskier’s thigh and Jaskier shifts as subtly as he can to give him better access. He grits his teeth against the tickle, breathes slow and deep. One of the mercenaries clears their throat and Geralt pauses his hand, waits, then continues.

“Next time I say I’m scared of bandits you should take it more seriously.” Jaskier licks his lips. “You need to start listening to me.”

Geralt hums skeptically and finally manages to get his hand into Jaskier’s doublet. It’s only there for a moment, then he pulls away completely. No ruckus from the company.

“Bandits and mercenaries are different,” he says. His hand disappears behind his back for a second, then returns to rest with the other one on his lap. Jaskier huffs a laugh and lets his hand fall from Geralt’s hair to his shoulder, sharing a meaningful look with him. 

“That’s about all I can do,” he says, nerves returning now. He does his best to hide them behind a smile. Geralt doesn’t return the gesture, his displeasure apparent. Maybe that’s flattering.

“Be safe.” Geralt’s voice is low, little more than a whisper. It sends sparks of something through Jaskier’s stomach and starts him off rambling.

“Of course. We’ll meet up again soon, assuming I don’t wind up in the noble’s dungeon. Or gallows. I suppose it depends on my performance.”

Geralt doesn’t look happy when Jaskier, barely done speaking, is pulled to his feet. Jaskier casts one last look at him over his shoulder while the mercenaries lead him into the trees.

The walk is rough. Jaskier is held under one arm by the man from behind the tree who seems to have taken his handling as a personal assignment, and under the other arm by an archer who doesn’t respond to any of Jaskier’s babbling, as if he’s little more than a satchel she’s been tasked with carrying.

The mercenaries Geralt knocked down are helped along by their company in a gentler manner, though not without good-hearted ribbing. Their comradeship is an odd thing for Jaskier to witness, and he isn’t sure he can come to terms with the fact that these people, so intent on bringing him along to what might end with his execution, have personalities and even kindness.

They walk for some time without interruption. Long enough that Jaskier worries Geralt won’t get to him before he has to face Breer. Or, worse, that Jaskier left Geralt in worse shape than he thought.

In hopes of leaving a more obvious trail than their disruption of grass and dirt, Jaskier occasionally spits, feeling a little silly as he does so. His captors snicker at the bloody mess he leaves behind, unaware of its purpose. They’re less patient when he drags his toes in the path, leaving behind shallow trenches.

It isn’t until the sun is setting that Jaskier starts to really consider what lies before him. The mercenaries pull off into a little clearing and start setting camp almost mechanically, each member with their own job. Two of the archers wander into the trees to hunt, and the others work on a fire and setting out bedrolls. They don’t pitch tents, and they use thin twigs and dry leaves to create a slowly fed, smokeless fire.

The leader wanders around, helping out here and there but largely just observing. He is granted a higher level of respect, but certainly not reverence, from his crew, who look to him first for instruction but don’t exclude him from the teasing and banter, and welcome him into their conversations.

Jaskier watches this with dull interest as he is tied to a small tree. Once he is secure, his handlers wander away to complete their other chores, and Jaskier shuffles around to make himself as comfortable as possible, listening to the trees around them and hoping that the gentle motion of the forest is animals or Geralt, not a hungry beast. The furrier from the town hadn’t been lying, according to Geralt, which either means that there is some sort of creature tearing people to shreds out here, or the mercenaries are more bloodthirsty than he thought.

His memory of Breer is distant and faint. The man had moved confidently with heavy feet. Unafraid or self-conscious. This, along with the fact that he stared, interrupted, and ignored made him deeply unpleasant to be around. He had only spared Geralt a passing glance and laid a majority of his focus on Jaskier. Breer had wanted Jaskier to perform at his son’s naming ceremony, and furthermore a bard to stay at his castle permanently, and made the offer with the ease of someone who is never turned down. Jaskier had disappointed him.

And he will be disappointing the noble again. It certainly doesn’t bode well.

The hunters return with a deer, and their companions joyfully go to work preparing it. Jaskier watches them chat and drink, smells the cooking meat and feels hunger like a pit in his stomach. They don’t offer him any, which is to be expected but doesn’t keep him from making a fuss that results in one of them shoving a hanky into his mouth.

Somehow, Jaskier manages to fall asleep. His body is aching and exhausted from the day, so he has to work to find a position against the tree that doesn’t hurt him and is nearly comfortable. Chatter dulls down as members of the group settle in for sleep, two keeping watch on opposite sides of the camp. When Jaskier closes his eyes and doesn’t let himself think about the coming days, the atmosphere is almost pleasant.

It doesn’t last.

Jaskier jolts awake with hands on him, working frantically on the ropes. He gasps, tries to pull away but only manages to snap his own head against the tree, then settles on wriggling his legs around to nudge the figure away.

It’s one of the mercenaries, he knows, though it is too dark for him to identify which one. When one of Jaskier’s kicks land on a muscled thigh, the man curses and crowds in closer, planting his knees on Jaskier’s feet to weigh them down.

He realizes, now, that the pitch darkness means that there’s no fire. When Jaskier changes his focus from his immediate issue to the anxiety-tinged air, he hears the clanging of blind battle. Jaskier groans and pauses his struggle, suddenly unsure if the mercenary is trying to free him so they can run from trouble or something else.

His concern is unnecessary. The forest goes silent as the noise of battle cuts out, only the mercenary’s nervous breathing making a sound. A shadow appears behind the man, who continues his work unaware. Jaskier squints into the darkness and sighs with relief when the shadow, sweeping his hand out to bash the mercenary behind the ear, steps close enough that Jaskier can make out his dark clothing and pale hair. Geralt.

The witcher kneels down in front of him, his eyes roving over Jaskier with steely intensity. Jaskier wants to say _Holy fuck you took your time_ , but the words are muted around the hanky. Geralt exhales slowly, the tension leaving his shoulders, and leans forward to slice through the ropes, careful not to cut the bard.

Once his hands are free, Jaskier digs the hanky out of his mouth with a groan, tossing it aside and grabbing at the front of Geralt’s shirt, unable to contain his excitement.

“Phew, that was good, Geralt. A daring rescue. No doubt the ballad I’ll weave with this will be—” Jaskier is cut off when Geralt yanks him to his feet, the sudden motion sending tingles through the bard’s stiff legs. He trips forward and bangs his cheek into his friend’s chest. He would be tempted to rest there if Geralt didn’t start walking, one gloved hand hooked in Jaskier’s doublet and the other around a sword.

It’s difficult for Jaskier to navigate in the pitch dark, but Geralt guides him. Now Jaskier can see the fallen mercenaries, can hear their quiet groans. Alive, but hurting. Good.

Geralt keeps him upright and moving, and Jaskier focuses on walking. He trusts Geralt not to knock him into a tree or let him fall. They make it through the trees and then step out onto a moonlit road, where Roach is nibbling on grass and patiently waiting. Jaskier plants both hands on the horse’s side and presses his face into her fur.

Before he can say anything, the hand on his doublet tightens and the other, sheathing the sword, grabs at Jaskier’s hip and hefts him up. Jaskier yelps but folds over the top of the horse, scrambling at the saddle and taking hold of the pommel.

“Over,” Geralt says, patting Jaskier’s right leg. The bard quickly obeys, swinging his leg up and over so he is sat properly on the horse. Geralt releases him and then brings his own hands up onto the saddle, and Jaskier realizes what is happening fast enough that he scoots himself back and makes room. Geralt mounts Roach, sliding in front of Jaskier with little trouble. Jaskier knots his fingers around Geralt’s armor, only struggling for a moment to find a good hold. Then they run.

Jaskier doesn’t keep track of how long they ride, though exhaustion eventually takes over and he slumps forward against Geralt, his eyes dropping shut. When he opens his eyes, Geralt is holding Jaskier’s hands together at his waist to keep him in place. Jaskier wants to go back to sleep, but Roach trots to a stop just then and they have to dismount.

It’s still dark as they return to the forest, securing Roach and then sitting on a grassless patch, close enough that their shoulders brush. Geralt sets a small fire and then leans back, closing his eyes.

“Does your head hurt?” Jaskier asks, his own voice croakier than he expected it to be. He clears his throat.

Geralt reaches up a hand to pat the back of his head, which is now stiff and painted a dark wine color. Like he forgot that he’d been hurt. He considers for a moment before shaking his head, and Jaskier believes him.

They sit in silence for some time, Jaskier kipping against Geralt’s shoulder, when the witcher suddenly moves, twisting at the waist and reaching for something. Jaskier opens one eye to see when Geralt presents his dagger.

“This is supposed to stay on your belt, Jaskier.” Geralt gestures with it carefully, aiming the point down. 

Jaskier takes it back and sheathes it drowsily, missing the mark several times and jabbing his own thigh. “Hm. It was, but it wound up behind the tree.” He doesn’t mention that between being sheathed and getting tossed, Jaskier had taken it out to join the fray. It’s kind of mortifying that he had done so poorly. “Surely I wasn’t so discreet that you didn’t notice me fetching it. Did you really think I banged my knee?”

“For a moment, I did think you were being clumsy.”

Jaskier ah-has. “Another great performance.”

They fall back into companionable silence, this one dragging on a bit longer than before. Jaskier is nearly asleep again when Geralt twitches against him and sighs, sounding bothered. With some difficulty, Jaskier sits up and looks at him. Geralt catches his gaze, face twisted with guilt.

“And how are your teeth?” It’s said so seriously that Jaskier, who has already checked several times, runs his tongue once more over his pearly whites. It takes his tired brain a moment to see just how uncomfortable Geralt looks, and Jaskier knows the witcher doesn’t actually care that much about the state of his teeth, as long as he can chew properly.

“All in order,” He says, patting Geralt reassuringly. “Though I’ve never spit so much in my life.” 

Geralt nods, keeping his face forward. “I wondered. About the blood.”

Jaskier thinks about this for a moment. He hadn’t considered that leaving a blood trail would be concerning, though looking back it wasn’t like Geralt was going to pause to study the blood. Maybe he hadn’t known it was from spitting, had only known that Jaskier was bleeding enough to leave a trail.

“I think the morning will find me black and blue, but nothing serious.” Jaskier tugs gently on a strand of Geralt’s hair, grimacing when he finds it crusty. “Speaking of morning, the first thing you’ll need to do is bathe. It’s absolutely horrendous back here.”

Geralt huffs out a laugh but doesn’t push Jaskier off when he continues to use the witcher as a pillow, and doesn’t nudge him awake until midmorning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If smokeless fires are fake, I don't want to hear about it.


	12. Interlude: Learning

Jaskier learns many things he never thought he would have to.

He learns about armor; how to put it on and take it off, how to clean and mend it.

He learns about setting up a camp, about catching wild animals in traps and crafting baskets to settle in the water to snare fish. How to cast a line or net out and wait for something to bite.

He learns about patching up clothes with a needle and thread, he learns about using a curved needle to pull together flesh, when all he needs to do is wrap a bandage and how tight to do it, which salves for which hurts, which potions for what occasion.

He learns about beasts, their names and what they do and how Geralt decides which to kill.

He learns about the Signs Geralt makes with his hands to use magic, about different weapons.

He learns new songs from strangers in taverns, hears stories of all sorts that he can incorporate into his own music.

He learns how much to barter for different contracts, when he should speak up and pull attention or disdain onto himself.

He learns how hot Geralt likes his bath water, which scents he likes and which are overwhelming. He knows when Geralt is in pain or when he’s comfortable, and can see the difference now between sleep and meditation.

He learns what it looks like when Geralt is angry, or sad, or exhausted, or amused or happy. Jaskier knows when he’s gone a little too far, when he’s annoying. He knows when he needs to give the witcher space, and when he shouldn’t leave him alone, when he should act as a distraction. He knows how to pull words from the man, and how to translate his monosyllables and hums.

It’s a privilege, he thinks, to be here. To be the one Geralt is comfortable with. To see him and bump against him when they walk together, to brush the tangles out of his hair and make sure he is taken care of. Someone to talk to and listen to. The person Geralt talks to, really talks to.


	13. Child Surprise

“This is how I love you. I am peeling back my skin, layer by layer, so you will finally know everything inside me.”

_―_ **Roxanne Gay, _Strange Gods_**

Over the years, Geralt generally slackens his reservations about letting Jaskier tag along on his contracts, knowing full well by now that Jaskier will insist. However, there’s an agreement between them when it comes to water creatures, as there’s not really much to be gained from it. Most of the action happens out of sight and if Jaskier can’t control himself and wanders into the water and is grabbed and dragged under, it’s unlikely that Geralt will realize that he’s gone soon enough to save him. They’ve learned from experience, of course. Jaskier still has nightmares about those fucking amphisbenas.

It doesn’t help that Geralt gets disconcertingly tense about dealing with water creatures. He explained his absolute loathing for water-related contracts early on in their companionship, and it’s probably the most Jaskier can recall Geralt talking uninterrupted. Drowners, he had said, aren’t so bad because they leave the water. But once he has to actually wade in and fight something in its natural habitat while his own abilities are hobbled, his life gets a lot more complicated. Jaskier has witnessed Geralt adamantly reject going out to sea to take care of whatever lies in the depths destroying ships and pulling screaming sailors from the deck, and he can’t really blame him. Frankly, he’s glad to see Geralt put his foot down.

So, the selkiemore eats Geralt.

Jaskier has seen the man busted and bruised and slashed and he always picks himself back up, so Jaskier sometimes lets himself, or makes himself, believe that the witcher is impossible to kill and capable enough that this isn’t much of a concern. And at this point he’s pretty sure that if Geralt dies at all it’ll be more of an event than _oops, I got swallowed ha-ha_. His apparent confidence is rewarded with Geralt’s timely entrance, tense and stomping into the tavern covered in ichor, providing a wonderfully dramatic conclusion to the evening.

The bard takes advantage of his friend’s exhaustion to ask him to accompany him on his next job, doing his best to make it seem like less of a slog, looking pointedly at the gore covering his clothes and emphasizing just how luxurious and blissful one night with nobles is going to be after this ordeal. After nine years together (on and off, but mostly on), Jaskier finally persuades Geralt to go with him to a party.

Jaskier really does expect it to be a nice evening. Perhaps with some mild conflict, but nothing that can’t be resolved with a deterring look, maybe a show of muscle. Bitter jealous husbands who happily bed as many people as they want but begrudge their spouses the same. They’re no match for one of Geralt’s glowers.

The clothes Geralt borrows fit him well enough, though he can’t squeeze into Jaskier’s trousers and has to wear his regular black ones. Jaskier helps him get properly arranged while Geralt insists he doesn’t need help and bats him away, though he does allow the bard to fix his hair. Once he’s ready, Jaskier steps back and takes in the full picture, pleased with himself. The doublet makes Geralt’s eyes look like little gems, the dark blue softening his usual harsh monochrome. It isn’t quite right because it isn’t _quite_ Geralt’s style, and Jaskier finds that he likes Geralt exactly as he is. But he does look lovely.

They arrive and Mousesack calls out to Geralt right away, foiling any plans of passing the night away covertly. It was a silly idea anyway.

The druid latches to Geralt like an old friend, eyes gleaming and joyful as he easily reaches out to him. Geralt doesn’t exactly beam his own delight, but is clearly happy to see the other man. He smiles at Mousesack, speaks to him without bite and is genuinely fond and pleasant. It settles oddly in Jaskier’s stomach, the warm welcome. He’s flattered himself, perhaps. Made his presence in the witcher’s life a bit more significant than it actually is. Not that he begrudges Geralt having friends- he deserves love and affection- it’s just that Geralt doesn’t treat Jaskier like that. Like someone dear to him.

Maybe he’s being dramatic.

The night takes a bad turn, and after swordplay, double weddings and Child Surprises, Geralt takes off. “Fuck,” he says, and Jaskier wholeheartedly agrees.

Jaskier wishes the woman he’s with a good night, both of their eyes sparking with the strangeness of the evening, though they’re likely fixating on different aspects of it. He’s a little disappointed to be saying goodbye to her so soon, but he needs to see to Geralt.

Jaskier gets his pay, though it’s tricky to find the proper moment to ask for it when things are so emotional and topsy-turvy in the dancehall, and takes off. He trots back to the inn, stumbling from the impact of drink and getting blasted from magical wind and the power of destiny or whatever that was, only to find that Roach, along with Geralt and both of their belongings, are gone. Jaskier hopes that Geralt hasn’t actually taken off without him, because then Jaskier is left with just his event clothes and a lute. If Geralt is in a particularly dark mood, he might wallow for days before he realizes that he’s stranded the bard, and then it’s a gamble to say whether he will hurry to retrieve him or just shrug it off. Geralt isn’t outright cruel, but he can be an arsehole when he’s upset.

Jaskier runs his hands through his hair and releases his frustration with a loud groan that grabs the attention of several horses, who peak up and stare at him, their ears flickering. He apologizes quietly and backs out of the stables to start his search.

Geralt got a bit of a head start on him, but Jaskier didn’t dawdle so much that the witcher could have gotten far, unless he truly galloped away at full speed. The bard isn’t a tracker by any means, and there are enough hoof gouges in the mud near the stables and clotted dirt in the streets that he can’t even start to guess which markings will lead him to Roach. After a moment’s consideration, Jaskier chances that Geralt will leave the city the same way they came in and once again takes off after him.

He hurries down the road, holding the strap of his lute case and cursing when it still bangs clumsily against his back. If there’s any harm done to it, he’ll have words with Geralt. The witcher is going to owe him new strings, anyway, for ditching him like this.

Jaskier is out of breath and sweating by the time he catches sight of Geralt. He’s walking along near the edge of the city wall, making his way to the large gates. He hasn’t mounted Roach, instead leading her by the reins and moving in an uncharacteristically absentminded way, like Roach is guiding him and not the other way around. It’s worrying.

“Hey!” Jaskier calls. His voice is too loud in the quiet of the city at night and a few roaming guards and civilians glance at him, then at the brooding witcher he’s rushing towards. Jaskier slows his pace and smiles genially, endeavoring to look a little less manic. Geralt looks back at him as well, but doesn’t stop walking away. Jaskier grits his teeth and closes the distance.

He bumps shoulders with Geralt and says, “You’re running off with my things, thief.” He thinks it sounds playful enough. It’s a silly thing to say, anyway. Geralt would certainly never take it seriously. The joke is supposed to make Geralt’s mouth twitch, maybe laugh, draw him out of himself some. Start the conversation.

But when Geralt bumps him back it’s _hard_. He jabs out with his elbow and knocks the bard in his ribs with bruising force. Jaskier stumbles back with a grunt, clutching at his side, and sits down hard. Pain shoots up his tailbone and he gawps up at Geralt’s back. The witcher hasn’t hit him since the first day they met when Jaskier foolishly called him the Butcher. It sits strangely with him all the way down. Geralt gets mad, but he doesn’t lash out like this. He doesn’t hurt Jaskier, even when the bard taunts him. And he doesn’t generally go after humans, even when townspeople refuse to pay and throw stones. But the throbbing in Jaskier’s ribs and the fresh mud on his trousers suggests otherwise.

Jaskier curses, snaps, “Geralt!” and the witcher turns on him so fast that Jaskier jumps, tensing with his arms up, prepared to get bawled out and have to mend fences.

Geralt just stares down at him, the heat slowly fading from his eyes. He blows air out his nose, then walks up and helps Jaskier to his feet with a strong pull under his arms. Gentle now. It’s not the apology Jaskier needs, not yet, but it’s comforting that his regret is so plain to see. Jaskier brushes the dirt from his trousers, grumbling about stains and glaring at Geralt, who refuses to meet his eyes. Just stares at the ground and chews on his own lip. Waits. At least he’s waiting.

“Big night,” Jaskier mumbles, feeling along his lute case to make sure there’s no obvious damage. He looks up to find Geralt staring at him now, his amber eyes radiating pain that burns through Jaskier like a brand. The witcher stays silent, and Jaskier doesn’t push.

Instead, he starts walking, running his hand along Roach’s side as he approaches. After only a moment’s hesitation, Geralt clicks his tongue at the horse and follows. They walk beside each other, probably looking a bit out of place in their trashed formal wear, both of them disheveled but painfully sober. They keep an easy pace, and Jaskier can’t help but send periodic hopefully-reassuring smiles at Geralt, taking the opportunity to make sure he hasn’t completely retreated into himself.

Geralt still hasn’t said anything, but it’s heavier than his normal silence. His face is unusually open, as if Geralt can’t put forth the effort to mask his anguish. Sad, frustrated, even though, for all intents and purposes, the night was sort of a success. No one died, as far as Jaskier could tell. There was a love story somewhere in there, though it had a few questionable points around the topics of age and ownership that might go unmentioned. Before everything went off the rails, the party had been nice and they both got a good meal out of it. And now Geralt is going to have a Child Surprise, though Jaskier can’t say he fully understands what that means or what the extent of that relationship is.

It’s confusing. Jaskier isn’t a fool; he understands that Geralt probably feels bad about claiming someone else’s child. It’s completely reasonable to have reservations and feel guilty about that. But it doesn’t make sense that he would stand in that ballroom, looking at the royal family kneeling before fate, dealing with the consequences of claiming the Law of Surprise, then do the same thing with a smile on his face. And now he’s upset. It’s a shitty joke gone wrong, but there are worse things than being given a child. There are worse things than getting a chance at whatever a ward can grant you.

Then again, in Geralt’s own words, he doesn’t want anyone to need him. Jaskier doubts that will be an issue in this instance, though, because the heir to a kingdom who has two brave parents and powerful grandparents won’t need to rely on Geralt. Not for survival or resources. Geralt could just be another part of the child’s family, another loved one. A guardian. There are no rules stating that he has to take the child away from their home, only that he’s bound to them by destiny, that he has to return one day and be part of their life in some way. If anything, Jaskier thinks this whole situation might be a blessing.

Of course, maybe Jaskier is projecting. Hard to say. Right now, it just feels like he’s looking at a torn-up patchwork quilt, contemplating the missing pieces and trying to see the complete image.

They make it past the gates and out onto the road. The night air has a biting chill, and Jaskier wraps his doublet closer around himself. It would have been nice to get the chance to change into travel clothes, but alas. Sometimes you have to endure for the sake of a friendship.

It’s anyone’s guess how long Geralt is willing to go in his own doublet and wispy undershirt before he takes a moment to stop and dig out his regular clothes. They’d left what he sent to get cleaned behind with the washerwoman, so Jaskier hopes he has something tucked away that isn’t riddled with holes and blood spatter.

The quiet drags on before Jaskier asks, “Are you…how do you feel? About all of it, I mean.” He says it softly, trying to pump the words with understanding and warmth.

Still, the witcher only grunts. Jaskier nods to himself, doing his best not to sigh or make a fuss. It’s fine. If Geralt isn’t ready to talk, that’s fine. They still smell like sweat and perfume, and Jaskier’s ears are still ringing from the clash of swords, his skin still covered in gooseflesh from the proximity to such strong magic, to the clangor of destiny so close, sure fingers prodding along the ballroom and making its presence known. Something terrifying about that. Something beautiful.

Unfortunately, Jaskier is persistent. And he’s vocal. And graceless. And bad at restraining himself.

He reaches out and rests a hand on Geralt’s arm, lending his warmth, though Geralt doesn’t respond to the touch beyond a brief flicker in his eyes. Jaskier licks his lips, squashing his own nerves, and says, “Well, when you’re ready. Whenever you want to talk, you know I’m happy to listen.”

Geralt immediately stiffens. Thick uneasiness drops into Jaskier’s stomach and he quickly pulls his hand away, pressing it against his own side and gripping the fabric of his trousers. Without looking at him, Geralt makes a noise low in his chest, disturbing like the clatter of an army’s steeds over a field.

His voice is spiked and baneful, and each word comes down over Jaskier’s head like an axe. “I’m not interested in sharing with someone whose whole life’s meaning revolves around exploiting others to bolster his own reputation, _Jaskier_.”

Jaskier swallows. Nods. Pain washes over him and he steadfastly ignores it, ducking his head so Geralt, if he resolves to look over the results of his lashing, won’t see how red his face is, nor the stinging wet around Jaskier’s eyes. 

Geralt is upset. Jaskier repeats it over and over in his mind like a mantra. While he wants to fight and yell and thrash against the insult, the unfair accusation, he knows Geralt is just upset. He’s hurting, and maybe Jaskier is being an arse, maybe he’s prying too much. He’s stepped out of bounds. Foolishly thought that it was a good idea to approach Geralt’s pain the same way Jaskier would anyone else’s when Geralt has a long history of rejecting his soft words and easy touches. The witcher is constantly tying himself in knots until he’s stuck in unmanageable layers with no clear start or end. And he does it all silently.

Jaskier lets himself fall behind a bit, patting Roach’s flank as he goes. It feels like a rock has lodged itself down his throat, and he carefully swallows around it, twitching and doing his best not to choke.

The night gets darker around them until Jaskier can’t see, his eyes wide and searching blindly, the faint silhouette of Geralt and Roach his only guide when the moon’s light can’t reach him. Under any other circumstances, he would reach out and grab ahold of Geralt, complaining the whole way about special witcher eyes and Geralt’s insensitivity to a poor human’s struggles. Of course, it’s rare that they travel so late into the night unless something has gone horribly wrong. Jaskier supposes it has.

The night drags on. Jaskier’s muscles burn and his head lolls around, eyes sagging shut with exhaustion. The adrenalin has abandoned him now, leaving him worn down and more tired than he rightfully should be. His feet are like lead, and clumsily catch on each other. He blearily trips along, trying to focus on Geralt’s back so he doesn’t get lost wherever they are. Feeling deeply resentful, now, and cursing him under his breath, Jaskier wonders if the witcher is actually trying to kill him or if this is some perverse punishment for trying to be a good friend.

It isn’t until Roach starts to whicker and nip at Geralt that he whispers something to her, perhaps an apology, and finally draws them to a stop. Jaskier immediately slides to the ground and rolls up, closing his eyes and fully prepared to sleep where he has landed. A moment passes, and Jaskier feels consciousness rolling away from him before Geralt kneels beside him with a whoosh, resting a hand over his forehead.

Jaskier blinks up at him, gearing up to unleash the angry words he’s been building up during their trek, but his intent catches when he sees Geralt’s pinched expression. Geralt inhales, holds the breath. Jaskier can barely make out his bright eyes in the dark, but he does his best to meet them, projecting his own hurt back at Geralt with a demand he can’t name.

Jaskier is about to roll over and close his eyes again when Geralt’s hand slides from his forehead to cup the back of his neck. His heart stutters.

“You need to move, Jaskier, or you’ll be sore in the morning.”

Jaskier makes a face. “I’m already going to be sore in the morning. My legs are throbbing. I have amazing legs, Geralt, they shouldn’t throb.”

Geralt works his jaw, his mouth drawing into a thin, regretful line. He gingerly eases Jaskier into a sitting position, then wanders away. Jaskier squints in an effort to track his movements and watches him trail along the trees before returning and setting up a fire that he ignites with a sweep of his hand. The sudden brightness burns and Jaskier rubs at his eyes until they adjust. Geralt goes to Roach and pulls out Jaskier’s bedroll, carrying it and an additional blanket over.

Once their hodgepodge camp is set up, Geralt stands over Jaskier, who is only awake through sheer force of will, and contemplates him for a long moment before grabbing him under the arms and lifting him to his feet. Jaskier hisses when his weight lands on his feet again, shoving frustratedly at Geralt, who shushes him and then deposits him back down onto his bedroll. Jaskier curls up with a groan. Geralt crouches and Jaskier swears at him halfheartedly while Geralt spreads his blanket out over him, tucking it in around his shoulders. Jaskier could slap him and his mercurial attitude. 

“I want an apology,” Jaskier gripes, his voice muffled as he presses deeper into the bedroll.

Geralt pats him, lingering longer than necessary before Jaskier hears him rise to his feet and walk away to care for Roach. Before he’s gone, he whispers back, “I’m sorry.” Simple and honest.

They don’t talk about the child. They don’t talk about it and they don’t talk about it and Geralt gets angry and quiet and sullen.


	14. Anger

Geralt has been in a shitty mood since Cintra, since he stupidly claimed the Law of Surprise, and he’s been taking it out on Jaskier. Of course, Jaskier doesn’t simply allow it; he was very forgiving in the first week, understanding that Geralt needed room to process everything that happened and all of the ripples that one night will make in the rest of his life, but there’s only so much one man can make allowances for before he starts to feel beat down, and they’ve passed that threshold. Now, Jaskier fights and snaps back when Geralt is too harsh.

He also makes sure that Geralt knows that he’s there to listen when Geralt is ready to actually talk things out, and Jaskier does his best to be patient because he understands that it’s a lot to come to terms with, especially for someone who is trained to bottle his emotions up.

But they’re fighting. A lot.

~*~

Jaskier wakes up from a nightmare and rolls over to see that Geralt has finally fallen asleep. The witcher has been struck with a bad case of insomnia, which has done nothing for their relationship. Geralt can go pretty far on little sleep, but he’s started to get an edginess to him that is worrying Jaskier. The sleep is well-deserved and settles something in Jaskier’s stomach.

Try as he might, the adrenalin still fizzles through him and Jaskier can’t fall back asleep. He twitches agitatedly in his bedroll for a while, arms stiff at his sides in an effort not to thrash around and make a ruckus. Jaskier gives up and slithers out of the bedroll, shuffling to his feet with a wary eye on his friend.

He kicks around camp for a bit, wishing that Geralt wasn’t such a light sleeper. It wouldn’t be so bad if Jaskier could just strum his lute a little, or even sing under his breath and compose a new song. Perhaps one about insomniac witchers and all their trouble. He hovers around like a specter for an uncomfortable length of time before giving in to his nervous energy.

Jaskier tiptoes out of their safe little circle, stepping carefully around the fire and moving to the dirt path and into the dense tree line. He only glances back once to make sure Geralt is still slumbering, then turns and goes.

Jaskier wanders down the trail in the dark. The moonlight doesn’t stretch past the heavy canopy of leaves, so he can’t quite make out the way before him. He can see the shadows of trees and underbrush enough to keep from losing his way, but not enough that he doesn’t have to shuffle his boots along the dirt to avoid tripping. All noise seems elevated. Insect chirps and frog croaks make him jump, and Jaskier distracts himself with somewhat frantic humming.

Finally, he feels the downward slope of the footpath that he remembers from their earlier walk. He and Geralt came out here before nightfall to clean up and collect some water. Just to the left and through the trees, and he steps out into a clearing. It’s easier to see out here, with the moonlight reflecting off the lake and the stars dotting the sky above him. Pleased with himself for navigating in the dark, Jaskier continues with a smile. 

Now, One of Geralt’s favorite things to warn Jaskier about is the dangers of approaching strange water alone, particularly at night. He reminds Jaskier a lot because it’s the piece of advice that Jaskier ignores most often. Jaskier travels alone quite a bit, so it’s not always an option to avoid all bodies of water. And he has been on enough contracts with Geralt to know what to look out for, so he doesn’t worry about it.

Jaskier kneels down by the water and splashes some on his face, gasping when the chill hits him. He leans back and closes his eyes. The easy slosh of water tries to sooth him, and he eases back on his arse and tries to follow its direction. He needs to relax so he can go back to camp and get more sleep, hopefully waking in the morning with more patience and a happier witcher.

He’s startled by a slapping noise and jerks to his feet. A quick scan out into the dark water reveals no unnatural movement. Another noise. Something to his right drags up onto the dirt and Jaskier tilts his head down to look. The face that looks back up at him is horrible; sickly gray and mottled skin, slightly lifted and slimy like a corpse that’s been submerged too long, along with bulging eyes and a gaping mouth. A drowner.

It moves quickly. Jaskier doesn’t have time to pull away before the creature wraps a large hand around his trouser leg and yanks hard. He kicks at it with a yelp and manages to wrench it off. Unfortunately, by now another set of arms has emerged from the water. The second drowner springs up to its feet so it stands before Jaskier, and it grabs at his arms. Jaskier tries feebly to wrestle with it, but can’t get a grip on its slick skin and keeps slipping against it.

The first drowner regains it’s hold on his ankles and pulls hard until Jaskier and the second drowner collapse to the ground together. They both start yanking him into the water and he scrambles to escape, kicks and punches but can’t get them off of him. He fumbles with his dagger, which is thankfully clipped to his belt- he often carries it in his bag but Geralt had grumbled something about this being a rough area so he kept it close tonight.

Jaskier brings it down carelessly enough that he swipes his own thigh a few times, cursing himself with each gash. The drowners don’t relent while he struggles, digging into him with claws and teeth, their slime seeping over him and making his efforts even more difficult. With a desperate shout, Jaskier brings the dagger down again and finally plants it. The second drowner releases him with a shriek, writhing against Jaskier as he tries to pull the dagger back out. His hand flexes on the hilt, now even more slippery from drowner blood, and only manages to wrench the blade around in the drowner’s torso until it goes limp over him. 

Jaskier makes a guttural sound and shoves the body off of him. He tries to find purchase and get back on his feet, but the first drowner persists in its attack, sinking its teeth into his shoulder and distracting him. Jaskier screams bloody murder, stretching out for his lost dagger only to find the second drowner has floated out of reach. It’s then that he’s confronted with the realization that there are two more creatures crawling out of the water to join the fray.

Fear shoots feverishly hot down Jaskier’s spine and his movements becomes more jittery.

More teeth, and Jaskier remembers who he travels with and screams for Geralt, blasting his voice into the night air with as much force as he can muster. He takes a breath to call out again and then he’s in the water, covered in grubby hands and stinging bites, towed deeper, pushed down into the mud and then held in place. Jaskier thrashes but a hand finds its way to his throat and squeezes until his mouth snaps open and hungrily inhales water. His lungs seem to contract in his chest and Jaskier’s body acts on instinct, shivering and convulsing and drowning.

Something swipes past him in the water, fast and sharp. The sensible part of his brain demands that he gets away from whatever it was, but his body won’t cooperate. More movement, and an arm hooks around Jaskier and starts tugging him backwards. Jaskier doesn’t have the energy or the strength to fight it, distracted by the hiccupping pain in his chest and the panic ringing between his ears. He busies himself scratching at his own throat and swallowing water while he is pulled farther and farther along. And then, in a rush, his head breaks through to the surface.

There’s a voice, grumbly and familiar, but Jaskier can’t understand what’s being said. He gurgles and the voice says something low and harsh. Then he’s being turned around so he can look blurry-eyed at the water, and he feels heavy enough to sink back down, saved only by the strong arm around him, a palm pressed flat to his chest. A broad, flat surface comes down hard on his back like a paddle. Once, twice. It doesn’t hurt, but Jaskier’s whole body jerks with the shock from the blows. The burning in his chest seems to shift up and he groans and then vomits up frothy water that drops into the lake.

Jaskier coughs and sputters painfully. His weak hands flex against the arm wrapped around him, and the thumping on his back changes into a soothing rub, side to side over his spine. He groans, spits, lets the arm take all of his weight.

“Ugh,” he says, and the person behind him sighs. Jaskier is pulled upright. He stumbles around clumsily until the arm tightens at his waist and redirects him towards the bank. They walk together, the arm a solid support and guide, somehow keeping their legs from tangling up. Once their feet meet the land, Jaskier is lowered down to sit.

He realizes by now that the voice- his savior- is Geralt. Obviously. Who else? He pats the witcher’s thigh fondly and croaks out a thank you before slumping against him, his whole body feeling loose and weak. Geralt’s heart beats slow, four times slower than a human’s, but Jaskier swears he can feel it thumping.

After a while, Jaskier raises his head and looks at his friend. Geralt is soaked up to his waist and his clothes cling to him in a way Jaskier can verify is uncomfortable. Jaskier breathes slowly, still wheezing thinly and swallowing around the wretched burning in his throat.

“I suppose all great storytellers should experience it once,” Jaskier says. His voice is wrecked and he flinches at the sound of it, already thinking about how long it will take to go back to normal and if he’s going to have to rest it before he can properly sing. The idea of being completely silent makes his stomach ache.

Geralt’s expression is pinched. His grip tightens infinitesimally around Jaskier. “Drowning?”

It makes Jaskier laugh, but the sound of it is cut short when he finds that laughing is more painful that talking. He coughs hard and leans forward when a spurt of lake water rushes up his throat. Geralt watches with a frown, lightly patting Jaskier’s shoulder in an uncertain attempt to comfort. 

When he’s done, Jaskier clears his throat again and says, “Near death.”

The moment stretches on silently, Geralt’s hand now warm and solid on the base of Jaskier’s spine, before the witcher seems to realize Jaskier is responding to his question, and the hand drops down to rest in the mud. Jaskier can almost hear his jaw tighten. “You’ve done that a number of times.”

“Right,” Jaskier says, pulling at his gauzy shirt to unstick it from his chest. It drops back heavily and continues to cling. He gives up and turns his attention fully to Geralt. “But variety is good. Now I have experience in several different methods and can better—”

Geralt interrupts with a stern, “That’s enough. You aren’t funny.”

Maybe Jaskier shouldn’t be joking around but it was _him_ who nearly died so he feels like he deserves some leeway. He says, “You really shouldn’t yell at me right now. I can hardly talk, let alone have an argument.”

Geralt moves too fast for Jaskier to process what is happening until he is suddenly twisted around and looking right into those amber eyes with Geralt’s hands nearing too tight on his shoulders. The witcher’s words bounce off the trees and Jaskier’s eyes go wide. “Do you want to die? Is that why you’re so careless?”

Jaskier whacks him on the chest with the heel of his hand and says, “That’s really something coming from you, Geralt. I’m careless? Maybe you want some payment for saving me, hmm? Maybe you want my first born as well? Claim the Law of Surprise?” The words bite despite Jaskier sounding like he’s been gargling glass shards.

Geralt’s eyes go wide. “Fuck off!”

But Jaskier is on a roll now, and once he starts it’s difficult for him to stop. Especially after Geralt has been in such a foul mood and has acted like an arsehole ever since Cintra. Jaskier can’t deal with not dealing with it anymore.

He leans in closer to Geralt, pushing against the other man’s hold, which slackens to keep from bruising him. Jaskier snaps, “Why not? Why not, Geralt? You got yourself a kid! Congrats!”

With a furious growl, Geralt pushes him back. Jaskier sprawls in the mud with a yelp, letting the momentum carry him down so he lays flat. There’s shifting around and Jaskier rolls up to see Geralt getting to his feet and stomping back towards the path. Jaskier thinks he’ll vanish down the dark trail but he stops just at the edge of the trees and waits for him to follow.

Jaskier snarls and yanks himself up on shaky arms. A spark of anger moves his hands, and he digs into the mud around him until he can rake out a good, sturdy clump of it, which he promptly lets fly at Geralt. 

It hits him square in the face. Geralt jerks with the smack and Jaskier feels it in his own chest, suddenly reminded of a villager throwing stones. Sick shame wheedles up his throat. He presses his dirty hands over his eyes and groans, voice strained and thick when he says, “Sorry, sorry. That was too much.”

He hears Geralt move and takes his hands down. He expects to watch him storm off, expects him to grab his things, to mount Roach and leave Jaskier here, and maybe Jaskier will just walk himself back into the lake so the drowners can have him.

Before he can sink too low into this line of thought, however, a big wad of mud punches Jaskier’s skull and he is thrown back with the impact and shock of it. He frantically wipes the dirt from his face- a difficult task when his own fingers are already smeared with mud- and grabs another handful from the ground around him as he sits back up, letting out a wordless cry as he throws the mud blindly. It miraculously hits its target, but Jaskier doesn’t have long to celebrate before Geralt is returning fire.

A clump of mud hits Jaskier in the gut, and he launches another handful at Geralt, missing the first time but then releasing a second rapid-fire and taking the witcher by surprise. Geralt bares his teeth and crouches, collecting mud with both hands and glaring at the bard as he works it into a sphere.

Frantically, Jaskier rolls to all fours and starts forming small but sturdy balls of mud in a pile. He takes one in each hand and looks up, ready to throw, when he sees that Geralt has completed his missile as well as is holding a massive globe of mud over his head in both hands, bits of it dripping down into his pale hair, and is preparing to slam it over Jaskier’s head.

They both go very still, and then the half-seriousness of it all pops like the cork from a bottle. Jaskier laughs with his full body, collapsing back and squashing his ammunition under his shoulders. Geralt huffs, then lets the globe drop without ceremony. It shatters on the ground and Jaskier laughs harder at the idea that Geralt was genuinely going to bash that over his head. It would have brained him.

The bard struggles to his feet, sliding around on trembling baby deer legs until Geralt closes the distance and holds him up. Anyone else would miss the amused quirk at the corner of his mouth, but Jaskier sees. He clutches the witcher and lets himself be guided back to the path; issues unresolved but on the table.

Once they’re settled back at camp, Geralt helps Jaskier strip off his shirt. The warmth of the fire tingles pleasantly at his back, and it takes real exertion to not abandon Geralt’s efforts and just curl up beside it and sleep. Geralt leans away and twists the shirt between his hands, wringing the water out. It’s filthy with mud, blood, and drowner ick. He’ll have to wash it. Not here, of course.

Geralt sets the shirt aside, laying it flat so it will dry easily by the fire. Then he turns again to Jaskier, eyes tracing over the bare skin of his shoulders, down his arms, and along dark chest hair. Jaskier keeps his breath even and slow, hoping Geralt doesn’t comment on the skip in his heartbeat, then follows his gaze down.

The bites are shallow, only drizzling thin lines of watered-down blood, pinker now than red. Most of them are on his arms, though his shoulders did not escape untouched and there is one prominent gouge just to the right of his heart. Jaskier traces his fingers along the lifted skin, surprised that he can make out the ridges of individual teeth.

“Not so bad.” He trips over the words, stops himself from carelessly remarking that he’s starting to look more and more like Geralt as time goes on. He doubts the witcher would think that particularly funny. Instead he smiles and puffs his chest out to give him a better look. “It’s sort of romantic, really. A bite above my heart. Like someone was trying to wrench it out.” Like someone wanted it so desperately. More romantic than saying some lake monster wanted to eat it.

Geralt shakes his head. “You’re lucky.”

“I am.” Jaskier considers for a beat, then smiles up at him through his lashes. “It’s good to know you, Witcher.”

Geralt sucks in a breath but doesn’t respond, instead reaching for a bottle of salve and bandages.


	15. Home

While it doesn’t happen often, Jaskier has seen Geralt interact with children. They might be there when Geralt questions someone about this or that, or turn up in small groups to stalk him around town. Jaskier can only ignore them for so long before he invites them over to ask their questions. It’s better to teach them now, or to unteach them whatever lessons sometimes send them running and screaming for their parents when the witcher passes by.

Geralt is far from natural with them; he’s uncertain and graceless and clumsy in a way Jaskier rarely sees him. Still, Geralt is kind enough and actually patient when he tries, and there is an undeniable softness in the way he speaks to children, and the way he listens as if genuinely interested.

There have been a few uncomfortable situations where Geralt answers a question too bluntly, though never harshly or cruel, or when a young child will grab onto Geralt in the hopeful way children do when they want to be lifted by someone who is clearly tall and strong. Geralt always refuses, regardless of the signals Jaskier sends him. When Jaskier asks why, Geralt says that the last thing he needs is to accidently hurt one of them, or have someone catch him tossing kids around and misunderstand it as violence. Sadness for Geralt and anger at the dolts who can’t look beyond their scary stories burn down Jaskier’s throat.

The worst is when a child is clearly unafraid of Geralt until an adult reacts poorly and screams at him like he’s a fox in the henhouse, and the child, confused and surprised, starts crying as they are pulled away. The look on Geralt’s face, resigned and mournful, makes Jaskier’s heart ache.

It’s hard for Jaskier to grasp. He met Geralt when he was eighteen. He had heard all the horrible rumors and warnings against witchers. The same things all these other people have heard, from small farms to taverns to lecture halls to the tallest towers. And he remembers realizing that Geralt was a witcher, and not just a random monster hunter but the Butcher of Blaviken. And he hadn’t been scared at all.

They’re watching a troop of local children run around a nearby field in some sort of fantasy game. Jaskier plucks at his lute, eyes flickering between them and Geralt, who is crouched a few feet away from him foraging. It’s probably one of the funniest things Jaskier has ever witnessed and somehow never written a song about. Until now. He sits cross-legged and lazily streams lyrics about the Great White Wolf prancing through a field of wildflowers, hunting for the brightest, most fragrant ones. He catches a few glares from Geralt in the corner of his eye, though he can tell by the way the witcher occasionally huffs out a quiet breath that he finds it funny enough.

Eventually they fall into a companionable silence, his strumming and the children’s delighted shrieking their only accompaniment.

It’s no secret that Geralt doesn’t think he’s suited to take care of anyone, though Jaskier heartily disagrees. True, Geralt is not an instinctively warm presence. It’s difficult for him to talk about his own feelings, let alone untangle someone else’s and come up with the right thing to say at the right time. Jaskier has known him for years and can’t quite conjure up an image of him approaching anyone for a hug. He would have to work hard to be what is expected from a typical loving figure, but that doesn’t mean that he wouldn’t be perfectly well-fitted to the job in his own way.

The evidence is right in front of them: while Geralt has stated in simple terms that he doesn’t believe himself capable of nurturing someone and likes to project that there is something inhospitable about him, he is also the dearest person in Jaskier’s life, something like a walking, sometimes-talking home that he is drawn to regardless of distance and time apart, and Jaskier doesn’t feel like he’s lacking for it. It’s far from the same thing as being a guardian or caregiver, but Jaskier thinks it has to show for something.

Geralt still won’t really talk about the Child Surprise, but now, unprompted, gathering celandine and fool’s parsley, he says, “I’m never going back to Cintra.” The statement is brusque, like he’s answering an unwanted question.

Jaskier pauses his playing for a second, processing, then picks the tune back up. Pretends not to be interested. “Why is that?” he asks without looking up from his fingerboard.

Geralt goes quiet, a contemplative furl to his brow. He studies the yellow petals in his hand, then carefully puts them in his bag and sits back on his haunches. “I’m just not made for it.”

“I don’t know, Geralt,” Jaskier says, strumming absently, completely losing track of the song. He tries to keep his tone light. “If you don’t want the child to live this life, why don’t you just find a new way to live? You’re a man of many talents. You could find work outside of witchering and make a home.”

The thought of Geralt out of armor, settled in a village somewhere and learning to live among common folk, without danger constantly hanging over him, warms Jaskier. He lingers on it as long as he can, more enamored with the idea than he might have expected. It probably shouldn’t be so surprising. 

Geralt huffs, clearly not as keen on this plan. “Witchers don’t retire,” he repeats with a wave of his hand. An old pain presses against Jaskier’s heart and he breathes around it. “And I don’t know anything about caring for children.”

Jaskier shrugs. “Well,” he says, tapping his fingers. “You wouldn’t have to do it on your own.”

Geralt just shakes his head, either not catching Jaskier’s meaning or not caring for it. Jaskier sighs, and neither of them says anything for some time. Jaskier turns to watch the playing children, trying to imagine what kind of parent Geralt would be. It’s unexpectedly easy to picture, and a small smile tugs at his lips.

The moment passes, broken by Geralt yanking a flower up by the root. He turns his head to Jaskier before speaking again. The words come slowly, each one laid down before Jaskier with deliberate care. “I know what it’s like to be given away, to be unwanted and then taken from the only life you know to a more difficult, colder one.”

Jaskier rests his lute on his knee, hands going still, and looks questioningly at his friend. He’s heard the stories about witchers and how they find their progeny in orphans and Child Surprises. It’s not easy to find accurate writings on witchers and most of what Jaskier has read or heard is only rumor and ridiculous claims. Sometimes he brings these to Geralt to find out if they have any authenticity, particularly if they seem at all probable or silly enough to make him laugh. This particular story isn’t something he has worked up the nerve to ask about, since it seems like a pretty sensitive topic. Now the matter is taken out of his hands.

Geralt pulls up another flower and stares at it with an unhappy expression. And there, in a field of fragrant flowers and to the sound of children playing, he mutedly tells Jaskier about being a Child Surprise and about enduring the trials and mutations.

He doesn’t say much, keeping his language simple, like he’s reading down a timeline. The pain he keeps out of the story bleeds into his voice, which drops low at times and catches. Geralt doesn’t tell Jaskier everything, doesn’t dispense details and offer up his heart for him to poke at, but Jaskier knows him, and he can feel it in those golden eyes. He can extrapolate.

Geralt sits perfectly still, face set towards the sun, and talks about excitement pooled with dread and terror, watching his brothers leave with their teachers, their turn to undergo the changes, then hearing their screams rattle through the lower parts of Kaer Morhen. Waiting for them to return while so many didn’t, and knowing that his turn was coming soon. Enduring that, all while thinking about why he had been left here, why his mother had wanted this for him. If she had any choice at all, or if he was torn from her by destiny and promises. Jaskier listens, quieter than he’s ever been, until Geralt’s voice drops back into silence.

Jaskier licks his lips. “Do you remember your mother at all?” he asks delicately. 

The witcher frowns. It looks like he’s fishing around for something, and a line appears between his brows. Jaskier waits patiently. “Very little. She was…we lived in a cabin, I think. Just the two of us. We had a horse.” Geralt pauses to think, his head tilting as he remembers images from so long ago. Jaskier refrains from saying _of course you remember the horse_. They sit for so long that Jaskier jumps when Geralt continues. “Her hair was red. Unnaturally red. And she…had a soft voice. Except. Hmm.” Then Geralt makes a face and turns to look at Jaskier. He says, “She was a sorceress. Or…she had magic. Sorceresses are infertile.”

Jaskier nods, thinking about this. He doesn’t know enough about mages to say if their magic sterilizes them or if it’s some sort of process they have to go through during their training. It seems like other magic users can have children just fine, though, so he figures it must be a procedure. However old Geralt is, perhaps it wasn’t done whenever his mother was young. Or she’s something else, like a druid. Like Mousesack.

He also knows that sorceresses live for a long time. Maybe whatever Geralt’s mother is does as well. “Have you ever tried to find her?”

An adamant headshake. “I barely know anything about her. It was hard enough to learn her name.” He doesn’t say what her name is, and Jaskier doesn’t ask. A tiny detail that belongs to Geralt.

Geralt is apparently finished talking. He roughly tugs up a handful of weeds and tosses them aside. Jaskier plucks a few notes on his lute, thinking of what to do. He doesn’t say what he wants to because he doesn’t know if he _can_ say it, doesn’t know if he could take whatever response Geralt would have if Jaskier said that in all this traveling, Geralt is the only real home he’s had since he was sent away to school as a child, and he’s the happiest home Jaskier has ever had.

Instead, Jaskier says, “That is…difficult. I’m not sure any of it means you wouldn’t make a fine caregiver.” Geralt snorts, clearly disagreeing. Jaskier waves him off. “We’ve done alright.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow and looks at Jaskier skeptically. “Would you say I’m your caregiver?”

Jaskier rolls his eyes, remembering how Geralt had fallen asleep last time he’d been in a tub, rotating his tired head to seek the pleasure of Jaskier’s fingers as they wove through his hair. How he’d only gotten into the bath because Jaskier had been worrying after him, nagging about how the witcher would wake up rank and with stiff muscles if he kept going like this. Silliness. “Absolutely not. No. If anything, _I_ care for _you_. And I’m not a child.”

A mischievous look. “No?”

Jaskier glares, then carefully looks at anything but Geralt, feeling somewhat bashful. “I just meant that you’re good to be around.”

Geralt shakes his head with a sigh and returns to his foraging. Jaskier tips back to look towards the brawling children, letting an amused smile pull across his face, and he decides that it’s only right to offer up a little of his own childhood- fair is fair, and it might sooth Geralt’s mind a little. Put him at ease. 

Even though the idea of telling Geralt about his family, of dredging up those old memories, makes him feel like he has eaten an eel whole. For a moment he allows himself to wallow in it, sitting silent with the childhood feelings of loneliness, of being smothered and ignored simultaneously. Of being burdensome just for standing in the same room. Of being too loud, too excited, too much. Then he buttons it all away and adjusts his posture.

Jaskier swallows thickly. Geralt must hear his heart sputter but doesn’t comment on it. His hands only still their work for a moment before he picks it back up.

“Ahhh,” he starts, cringing at himself. “I think I would have liked to grow up in a town like this.”

Geralt shoots a look at Jaskier that is equally confused and good humored. “Feeling old?”

A laugh. “No. But, you know, I never got to play with the other children like that.” He gestures at the kids. One of them is wielding a stick and tapping the ground, his eyes tightly shut, calling out for the other children and swinging out when he hears movement or nervous snickering. None of them have been beamed with the stick yet, and Jaskier gets the distinct impression that as soon as one of them does, the game will come to an abrupt and tearful end.

Jaskier peeks over at Geralt and wonders if he and the other witcher boys played games and had fun or if their lives had been strictly clipped around routine and training. Geralt has mentioned those he spends his winters with at Kaer Morhen enough that Jaskier knows some of their names and has seen how his face lights up, how he always seems eager to go see his brothers. They must have bonded somehow, and hopefully not just over their struggles and shared pain.

“Why not?” Geralt asks. And just there, Jaskier can see a hint of curiosity. It makes his stomach flip uncomfortably and he idles around his answer. While he dallies, one of the children screeches, barely slipping out of the way of the swinging stick. The stick-wielder squirms, shouts something Jaskier can’t make out, and swings again, wide this time. The play continues.

“Actually, my brother and I did play one game like that.” He loses himself in thought for a moment, remembering how Roark would go boneless with laughter, tripping over himself in their lawn and finally dropping the branch. It had hurt, of course, but Jaskier also remembers having a lot of fun until they got caught. He shakes it off and continues. “My father kept my brother and I at home. He wanted us focused, I suppose.”

He’s opening up, maybe a little too much. Or being too vague. There are questions he doesn’t want to prompt, things he doesn’t want Geralt to think or hear or say.

Instead, Geralt snorts. “Doesn’t look like it worked out for him.”

He doesn’t think he’s ever mentioned to Geralt that he has a brother, but the witcher seems to take it in stride. Maybe he said something while he was drunk, or Geralt figured it out some other way. He doesn’t think Geralt would be very surprised to find out that he was a noble, since it clings to him like an old skin, no matter what he does. And nobles generally have more than one child.

It’s also very possible that Geralt just doesn’t care that he has a brother. Geralt has a lot of brothers, so who cares about one single man over in Lettenhove? 

Jaskier smiles weakly. “Not on me,” he says with all the cheer he can scrounge up. “My brother did well, though. _I’m_ not so good at being still and quiet.” Somehow, Jaskier manages to smother the resentment in his tone. Or, Geralt just doesn’t pursue it.

“Hmm. I noticed.”

Jaskier shrugs. “I might have tried a little bit harder if I knew about the punishment.” He considers, then says, “But maybe not. Probably not.”

The face Geralt makes is hard to read, but the corners of his mouth turn down. His shoulders tighten. “Oh?”

Has Jaskier ever talked about this before? He has, just a bit. At Oxenfurt, when he was morosely drunk and loose-tongued, or when Gin- the Countess de Stael, though at the time she had a chipped tooth and a habit of overindulging in enough caramel candies to make herself sick- would press him with her cool hands and say _What’s wrong? Why are you so sad, today? What are you thinking about?_ There had never been any catharsis in talking about it, though. No peace, no relief. It has always been more soothing to try and forget. Distract himself with better things, with a richer life than whatever he had before. He doesn’t like talking about when he was Julian.

He fidgets. “Sent me away. Temple school. Learn, or else.” Jaskier grins with all his teeth. “Sometimes I still shudder at the sight of a cane.” He playfully shakes his arms and chatters his teeth, then flexes his hand on his lute, trying to keep his shoulders from dropping. 

Geralt studies him for a long moment without speaking. He doesn’t look pleased, but he also doesn’t look particularly bothered. More like he’s putting something together in his head. Then again, Jaskier’s story feels so small next to Geralt’s.

Geralt says, “I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“No, I suppose not.” He wants to, but doesn’t, say _good_.

Jaskier is sure he should say more, tell him about the quiet and the stillness and the absence. He should say something about his own mother, what she did, where she went. He should probably mention being a viscount, in case it comes up. And Geralt deserves to know about his name. But he can’t make himself continue. They sit for a while longer until Geralt climbs to his feet. Jaskier follows his lead, brushing the dirt from his trousers, and they make their way back to Roach. He notices Geralt glancing back at the children one final time before they go, something soft and vulnerable in his eyes. 


	16. Lullaby

Jaskier is without Geralt when he hears the news about Pavetta and Duny dying. He has just finished singing around the tables at a tavern and has dropped into a chair, gulping a drink and thinking about where he wants to go next while he idly listens to nearby gossip in hopes of catching any mention of a witcher or even monsters nearby.

Instead, he hears about the recent tragedy of Cintra, the lost royalty. “Now their little baby is the only heir,” one of the villagers says, and there is a hum of sympathy, a few derogatory remarks about the crown. Then they move on to more local affairs. Jaskier feels a pang in his chest.

Calanthe had been so protective of her daughter, of her legacy. The brief exposure he had to the queen showed her to be aggressive and perhaps overbearing, but he imagines that this loss is taking its toll.

Jaskier can’t help but think about Geralt’s Child Surprise orphaned. The child would only be a baby right now and they’ve already lost so much in their narrow world. Poor thing. And what does this mean for Geralt? If the baby is the only heir, then it surely won’t be leaving the kingdom to run around with a witcher. But destiny has its way of getting what it wants, and if Geralt is meant to care for this infant, then…well. He doesn’t want to care for a baby. So. Jaskier doesn’t really know what is going to come out of the situation.

But there is still that discomfort in his chest, and, unsure if he’s taking action out of pure concern for Calanthe and the babe, or if he’s simply checking up on Geralt’s Child Surprise (or if he’s hoping that Geralt has also heard the news, prompting an enormous change of heart, and is currently on his way to Cintra to see the child as well, after denying himself for so long, and Jaskier will meet him there), Jaskier gathers his belongings and starts his journey.

It takes a few days for him to get there, and there is a definite air of mourning to the surrounding city. A heavy silence, like the whole kingdom is treading carefully. Jaskier suddenly feels a little too colorful and bold in the slow-moving streets, and fights against the urge to shrink into himself. He does, however, duck into an alley and hastily change into a slightly more reserved doublet.

He makes his way to the castle, feeling like an absolute fool. There is no world in which a dusty, now-mismatched, traveling minstrel wanders up to the guards at the main gate of the home of royalty and says _Ah, yes, it’s me! The bard from over a year ago. Remember that fiasco? I want to come in to see the Child Surprise even though they aren’t my Child Surprise and this is a very sensitive time and I don’t have a strong motive to care about the baby other than the fact that Geralt of Rivia might care that it’s an orphan, which apparently means something to me, so, please_ and the guards actually let him in instead of knocking him senseless and sending him on his way. Or locking him up.

He prides himself on having a silver tongue and undeniable charm, but there are some doors even he can’t unlock and minds he can’t change.

Preparing to be immediately turned away, Jaskier checks that his doublet is properly buttoned and strides ahead with a respectful level of bravado. The guards flicker their attention to him as he approaches, their mouths pulling into thin lines and their hands already twitching towards their swords. He sucks in a breath in preparation of a meandering and wordy speech when a voice from just beyond the gate says, “Bard?”

Jaskier snaps his mouth shut and squints past the iron bars to see the speaker. Tall, with gray hair waving around his face and a neatly trimmed beard. Mousesack steps closer to the gate, intelligent eyes locked on Jaskier, brows furrowing suspiciously. Jaskier nods and steps closer to the gate, ignoring the warning sound the guard closest to him makes. He reaches out a hand to point at Mousesack, who eyes it but doesn’t move to take hold.

“Yes, yes! Do you remember me? I was with the witcher Geralt? You know him, yes?” He pauses, waiting for some sort of response or look of recognition or acknowledgment, but Mousesack and the guards just continue to watch him icily. He plows ahead. “We heard the recent news and wanted to check on—”

Finally, a muscle in Mousesack’s face twitches and he interrupts Jaskier’s rambling to order the guards to let him in. Jaskier’s heart jolts and he takes a deep breath, though relief doesn’t stall the tension that twists down his spine. This is all going a lot smoother than he expected, which probably means that he’s actually about to be escorted to the dungeon on suspicion of conspiring to kidnap the royal baby.

Or it’s going well because Mousesack understands that Geralt would want to check on the child, even though that apparently isn’t happening. Not at the moment, at least. Jaskier can’t imagine that he beat Geralt here, but that could just mean that the witcher is still toiling away at his emotions, trying to decide what he’s feeling, what it means, and whether he should act on them. In short, he’s brooding somewhere.

Mousesack looks him over and then starts back towards the castle without comment. Jaskier follows close behind, the compulsion to explain burbling through him. “So, Geralt, he—”

He’s interrupted again. Mousesack’s face twists with annoyance and he says, “Couldn’t be bothered to come on his own and sent his poetaster instead?”

Jaskier pauses, manually stopping himself from getting offended. The Mousesack he met at the feast seemed endlessly patient and good humored, but grief has dragged that out of him. There’s no sense getting irritated with someone who is coiling around their pain like a snake. That’s a lesson Jaskier has already learned. 

Besides, the druid’s assumption isn’t the entire truth, but it’s close enough to be comfortable. Jaskier licks his lips and says, “Uh, yes.”

They enter the castle and Mousesack leads him towards the stairs. It’s strange to see the halls so empty and still. Everything is clean and kept as one would expect, but there is none of the usual bustle of servants going about their duties or guests enjoying the extravagant lifestyle and taking advantage of the good weather. The usual residents are tucked away, out of sight and whisper-quiet.

Jaskier swivels his head around as subtly as he can. In his distraction, he slings his boot under the corner of a run and it catches. Pulled off balance, he curses and grabs at the closest thing to him, which happens to be a large tapestry, complete with woven unicorns and tassels. He quickly rights himself, releasing the tapestry before smoothing his hands down it, making sure he didn’t leave any wrinkles or, gods forbid, rips. Mousesack watches this silently, one eyebrow quirked. Some of the anger has faded and now he just looks tired. He lightly taps the rug Jaskier careened over, resettling it in place. Jaskier smiles sheepishly.

They continue their trek. Jaskier watches his feet more carefully now, gripping the bannister as they make their way upstairs.

Mousesack hesitates, then asks, “Do you know about the child?” 

“Of course,” Jaskier says. He would have to be incredibly unobservant to _not_ know. Pavetta wasn’t exactly subtle with her vomit, and the whole party had been circled around the family at the time, seeing as how there had just been a whole marriage ceremony and a man with a hedgehog head.

The druid scowls, setting his grim eyes to the space ahead of them. “And still he sent you.”

Mousesack comes to a halt two steps above Jaskier so he towers over him and finally turns so they’re facing each other. He holds Jaskier with a hard look, assessing, and then carefully traces his eyes over him. Jaskier stands steady and allows himself to be measured.

That same muscle jumps in Mousesack’s face once he’s finished, apparently not quite satisfied with what he finds. Jaskier knows that look; he’s grown to expect it, especially from people who know Geralt personally. They find out that he’s traveling with a companion now, a bard of all things, and their faces all pull into the same confused expression, all wanting to know the same thing: why? Jaskier doesn’t know why, only that this is the way things are and he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

A deep breath lingers in the air between them, Mousesack’s chest heaving up with it while he chews over his thoughts. Then, with some difficulty, he says, “I have heard your songs.” It’s so far from anything Jaskier expects him to say that all he can do in response is nod dumbly. Mousesack continues, “They’re very cheerful.” Normally that would be a compliment, but the words sound regretful coming from the druid.

Jaskier says, “Not all of it,” maybe a bit defensively, not sure why he’s being reviewed.

Mousesack seems to brighten infinitesimally. “Maybe Geralt did send you for a reason.”

They proceed up the stairs and into another velvet-draped hallway. As they walk deeper into the castle, Jaskier realizes that they’re going beyond the normal area sanctioned for visitors. From dance halls and sitting rooms to hallways with doors to personal chambers. For a sickening moment, Jaskier wonders if he’s being taken to Calanthe, who he doesn’t particularly want to face at the moment. If Mousesack, who he might have expected to be somewhat welcoming based solely on his awareness of Jaskier’s relationship with Geralt, has been so snippy, he can only imagine what the mournful Lioness is like at the moment.

Then Jaskier becomes aware of a sound. It’s long and drawn out. High pitched. At first, it’s distantly irritating but easily ignored, then it grows louder and louder. Jaskier draws to a stop, listening as what was only a drone evolves and spins out through the air like the screech of a banshee. It arches to its peak, then seems to snap around them and collapse into familiarity. Jaskier blinks as he recognizes the remaining sound as the wail of a very agitated baby. 

He immediately understands that this is _the_ baby. The Child Surprise.

Jaskier doesn’t have a lot of experience with babies, but he doesn’t think they’re normally quite so loud. It might be his imagination, but it seems that with each cry, the walls of the hallway tremble as if they are being slammed by a great force. But that’s impossible. Of course, Jaskier also witnessed Pavetta’s power, and now he’s thinking this is a subject that he should have explored more. Magical mother, magical baby. It should have been obvious. Expected. 

He feels rather silly, now, for not anticipating it.

They walk down a few more halls until they are standing outside a heavy wooden door, behind which the screaming is nearly blistering. Jaskier brings his hands up to his ears and presses in, cringing as the cry builds up again. Mousesack knocks twice and then gently opens the door, peering in before pushing it the rest of the way.

Jaskier follows him into what must be a nursery, though Jaskier can’t imagine a baby so young would sleep in a room completely separate from its mother or some other caretaker. It’s rather extravagant for a baby, though Jaskier wouldn’t expect any less from royalty. Everywhere he turns there’s dark wood and silk, lace and frills, toys and books and art that someone so small can’t yet enjoy. The crib is carefully carved, the posts winding up like gnarled vines, topped with gilded roses. Tucked in close to it is an ornate and cushioned rocking chair, which is currently supporting the king.

Eist is not holding the baby, but he slouches forward in his seat so he practically hangs over the top of the crib, looking bedraggled and windswept, his eyes narrow with exhaustion. One hand is hooked over the arm of his chair, and the other reaches down towards the baby. Eist tuts and whispers, waving his fingers down into the crib to calm the erupting infant.

Jaskier has no idea why he is here. He doesn’t know what he was thinking coming in the first place or why he has been escorted exactly where he intended to be without having to ask. How the fuck did his life lead to him standing in a nursery with an heir, a king, and a druid?

Eist looks up at Mousesack and then, more cautiously, at Jaskier. Mousesack inhales slowly and says, “Geralt’s bard,” as if that serves as enough of an explanation.

There is a sudden slump to Eist’s shoulders, a pleading look in his eyes as he directs his attention to Jaskier and says, “She won’t rest. I can’t…We’ve been trying everything but she…she keeps screaming. She won’t rest.”

“Ah,” Jaskier says, with the air of someone who knows exactly what is happening. He glances at Mousesack before cautiously approaching the crib and looking. The baby is red faced and her pudgy arms and legs are kicking restlessly, her ribs shuddering with dismay as she gears up for another howl. Beyond that, she is perfect. It almost makes him dizzy, taking in her long fingers and fine hair. A small snub of a nose, wrinkled in frustration. He can almost see Geralt in her grimace, ridiculous as that may be.

Jaskier hums, considering, and then reaches his hand down to run the tips of his fingers over the pale wisps of hair. He half expects one of the other men to yell and throw him out for it, but they just watch him, Eist shifting in his chair but not admonishing him. Jaskier has always heard that babies have a particular, pleasant smell, but is wise enough to not investigate.

“What’s her name?” he whispers, and the answer is drowned out by another scream. Standing this close when the baby cries is like getting hit by a strong gust of wind, and the shock of it nearly throws Jaskier off his feet. His body seems to rattle all the way to the bones, and he’s left with a tingling in his skin and teeth. Around him, all the little comforts and fineries twinkle and dance.

Eist swallows, then repeats, “Cirilla.”

A lovely name, well-chosen for a princess. It sounds like something out of a fairytale. Good nickname potential as well. In Elder, it means Swallow, though he isn’t sure that particular comment would be welcome here. Still. A fluttery little name for a cawing bird. He imagines she’ll have quite the voice for speeches and arguing, if not singing.

Jaskier knows it isn’t his place to ask questions and he’s only still here by the skin of his teeth and out of some kind of desperation, so he pats Cirilla’s chest and says, “Hush now, Cirilla. Time to sleep, time to sleep.” He retracts his hand and starts taking out his lute, deciding that there really is no other reason for him to be here than to perform, and asks, “Are there any particular lullabies…?”

Eist and Mousesack both consider, completely harried and beyond their wits, before Mousesack says, “Pavetta used to sing something.” He hesitates. “A classic: The Wolf Song.”

The druid looks half amused, half apologetic. Jaskier understands why. The lullaby is very barbed. It almost feels like a betrayal to sing it at Geralt’s Child Surprise, though she is too young to understand. Maybe it will never mean anything to her at all, the way things are going.

Jaskier plucks at his lute a few times and then gently starts to play.

_“The wolf is howling in the forest of the night_

_he wants to, but cannot sleep_

_the hunger tears his wolven stomach_

_And it’s cold in his burrow_

_Wolf, wolf, don’t you come here_

_I will never let you take my child"_

To Jaskier’s delight, Cirilla’s breath seems to even out, her rosebud lips popping open and her eyes opening wide so he can see that they are unnaturally green. It takes all of his training not to chuckle at her shocked expression, though his heart gushes. As the song progresses, the tension in her body visibly depletes and she sinks deeper and deeper until her eyes drop shut. 

_"Sleep, my child, in mother’s bed_

_and let the wolf howl away_

_for if none before has taken them_

_I shall give him some chicken legs_

_Wolf, wolf, please, why don’t you feed_

_On the scraps that I leave you?_

_I promise this, if my child you kiss_

_That’s the last thing you’ll do.”_

He goes on until the baby is soothed, humming out the last few notes and then strumming for a while longer, peeking at the smiling, relieved faces of Mousesack and Eist, pleased with himself and the peaceful baby. He finally rests his hands on the fingerboard. Cirilla has shut her eyes and fallen asleep. Jaskier takes in her slack face and round cheeks and feels a warmth grow over him. 

He’s drawn from his thoughts as Eist takes one of Jaskier’s hands and squeezes, his smile wide enough to be painful. Jaskier has never seen a king so grateful, especially not for something he has done. The closest he’s gotten to this expression is when Geralt does something heroic and Jaskier gets caught under some of the resulting appreciation due to proximity. It makes him uncomfortable to have that looked leveled on him, but also, admittedly, somewhat prideful. And all because he put a baby to sleep.

Mousesack guides Jaskier out of the nursery, both of them careful not to disturb the crib or make unnecessary noise, and Jaskier feels almost dizzy with the oddness of the whole situation. The older man walks beside him this time as they walk, shooting Jaskier not very discreet looks.

“Did Geralt send you with this is mind?” he asks, wry and dry.

Head in the air, Jaskier feels comfortable enough to say, “I don’t think so, actually.”

Mousesack laughs and grab’s Jaskier with surprisingly soft hands and pats him on the back. “We would be grateful if you stayed in the castle for a while. Until Cirilla is less restless, or we find someone with a similarly soothing voice.”

Jaskier hesitates. He thinks about finding Geralt and what exactly it will be like to live here in such a sensitive time, what Geralt will think about this if he finds out. Then Jaskier thinks about little baby Cirilla howling, and realizes that he couldn’t possibly leave now. He returns Mousesack’s smile and agrees.

Jaskier winds up staying for nearly a month, spending most of his time either in his rooms or winding his way around the city as it gradually returns to life. When Cirilla cries, he is summoned. He moves away from the song about wolves, sweeping through his entire catalogue, though he tries to censor the more risqué lyrics, to the amusement of whoever is chaperoning him at the time. Each time, the baby hiccups to a stop and settles down. 

In the end, Eist and Mousesack offer a permanent place in the palace. Jaskier won’t admit that he considers staying. He knows better than to plant himself here: winters in Oxenfurt have taught him that a sedentary life is nice, even wonderful, for a short time before he gets that familiar antsy need for adventure, and he knows he would miss Geralt. He already misses Geralt, and isn’t looking forward to explaining where he’s been.

He thanks them before saying goodbye, then heads out to find his witcher, who Jaskier thinks might never hear the full story about this time be spent in Cintra with his Child Surprise and how he nearly became a live-in bard to the throne. He’ll keep it simple. Minimize for once instead of embellishing. _I went to the palace; I met the baby. She’s wonderful, Geralt, you’d love her. And her taste in music is already very developed._

Jaskier gets as far as, “Geralt, did you hear about what happened to Pavetta and—” before Geralt cuts him off and resolutely ends the conversation indefinitely. He tries to approach the topic several more times and is always quickly and decidedly rebuked. Eventually he stops trying.

Still, he is tracked down months later by a royal messenger who invites him to Ciri’s birthday celebration, and subsequently each birthday after that until his presence is expected. He gets to know the girl, becomes friends with Mousesack and Eist and a familiar face to Calanthe, who mostly just glowers at him.

Geralt never seems to question why Jaskier is away at the same time each year, though Jaskier suspects he has some idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song used in this chapter was The Wolf Song from Ronja the Robber’s Daughter. I mixed different translations of the lyrics, so any weirdness there is my fault. I haven’t seen the Studio Ghibli series where the song comes from (the song was only discussed in the book), but I can recommend the book. It’s written by Astrid Lindgren, who also wrote the Pippi Longstocking books. Very fun!


	17. Scruples

Jaskier learned a long time ago that the witcher code Geralt occasionally mentions doesn’t actually exist. He uses it as an excuse to get people to fuck off or drop a subject, taking advantage of their ignorance. If someone insists that he should take part in a job that he either isn’t interested in or actively dislikes and won’t let his refusal go unquestioned, Geralt says it’s against witcher code. It usually works.

Geralt’s own morals aren’t always straightforward- in fact, Jaskier would argue that they’re all over the place and confusing. Definitely not something that could easily be outlined into a system. Geralt claims that he won’t interfere in human quarrels, that witchers are neutral, but if he’s around he won’t just let someone get hacked to pieces, assuming they don’t deserve it. He doesn’t believe in a greater evil, but that doesn’t always keep him from taking sides.

And he doesn’t judge others for silly things. For example, Geralt doesn’t care that Jaskier has so much sex with so many different people, he just tells him to stop fucking people whose spouses are going to actually try to kill him. It’s not bad advice, but Jaskier doesn’t see how it’s his job to make sure wedded people remain faithful. Besides, it’s not like the people he’s sleeping with would tell him beforehand.

Sometimes Jaskier will be in the middle of telling him a story about an adventure or conquest he had while they were separated and Geralt will get this disapproving look in his eye. Jaskier learns to discern between _I wish you hadn’t_ from _you shouldn’t have_. It’s a pretty bad feeling when Geralt judges his morals, though Jaskier isn’t sure why because it’s not like Geralt has any real authority on the matter. Or a leg to stand on. And Jaskier has never claimed to be a saint, or even good at all.

Geralt is worse on himself when he does something that he feels is wrong, anyway, so Jaskier thinks it’s more of a guide for himself than others. When someone snaps and calls him Butcher, with a few exceptions (such as their first meeting), he generally just takes it. Because he regrets what happened. And Geralt does a lot of shitty things, there’s no denying it. As much as Jaskier literally sings his praises, Geralt says and does things that even give Jaskier pause. He is mean and grumpy and he has laughed in people’s faces more than once, he’s refused jobs that Jaskier isn’t sure he should have. Geralt is mocking and rude and pushes people away like he’s brushing off dust.

But he has also marched across the woods to find monsters that he decided weren’t so monstrous after all and let them go. He has refused payment or snuck coins back into the purses of the truly desperate. Has mercy on those who act out cruelties against him- which Jaskier wouldn’t call virtuous so much as charitable. And he hasn’t thrown Jaskier out for good yet, so that’s a point.

Geralt’s personal idea of right and wrong rarely comes up in pleasant conversation. When they are mentioned, it’s usually because he’s being questioned and second guessed. Jaskier himself isn’t shy about asking questions, but he finds that this particular topic is better observed than investigated.

All in all, Jaskier believes Geralt is a good man, whatever that means.

The times when a contract ends in regret and self-flagellation are few and far between. Usually, if someone is desperate enough to seek out a witcher, it’s in order to prevent more death or solve a serious problem. Geralt doesn’t even always have to kill anything; sometimes he just tells a creature to scram and life returns to normal for whoever was being bothered.

There is one contract that Jaskier and Geralt don’t talk about. It seems to sit on the witcher’s shoulders more heavily than many of their other fouled up contracts. Jaskier hardly wants to think about it himself.

They’re in a town catching up after a few months apart, ordering too much food and drink that they cheerfully pick apart and gorge on, determined to clear their table before the night is through. The tavern is just boisterous enough that they can wedge into the corner table and blend into the shadows despite how loudly they talk, smiling and laughing at their respective adventures and misadventures. Jaskier is trying to get the details of a potentially very juicy story when a woman approaches, wringing her hands. She’s accompanied by a priest of all things.

Geralt isn’t looking for a job, though it often happens that he doesn’t have to. People in need of a witcher have a habit of finding them on their own.

The woman’s face is puffy from crying, and the redness of her eyes make her green irises stand out like gems. Watching her hands, Jaskier sees that she has bitten her nails to stubs, and there is a distinct dishevelment about her. Just behind her, the priest stands with a painfully solemn expression. Jaskier feels dread settle into his stomach, gearing up for what looks like some sort of confrontation. They just got here and he doesn’t want to be chased off or hit with tossed stones.

The woman opens her mouth to speak, but her eyes swell again with tears and instead of saying anything she just stares at Geralt and croaks. Geralt leans back in his chair, his lips pulling into a thin line. He looks at Jaskier as if for help, but before the bard can interfere, the priest places a hand on the woman’s shoulder and steps forward.

“Breathe, Hegena,” he says, voice low and soothing, despite the despair plain on his face. He keeps his eyes on her for a few moments, making sure that she minds him, before refocusing on Geralt. “I am Frauke from the Temple of Verna the Merciful.”

He looks between them for a flicker of recognition. Geralt nods politely, and the priest seems to take it as a signal to continue. Before he can, though, Hegena blows out a long breath, her eyes dull and glassy, and slouches forward to lean heavily on their table. In a flurry of motion, both Geralt and Jaskier slide further down their benches, making room for her to sit. She swallows and then slides down beside Jaskier, who gently takes her hand.

The priest licks his lips. “We’re seeking help for Hegena’s husband. He has been possessed by a demon.” Jaskier glances at Geralt as this sinks in, but the witcher doesn’t twitch. “He became horribly violent and has been slaughtering their livestock. Once Hegena realized who was killing their animals, she came to me and I confirmed her fears. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to do anything for him. And Erold attacked Hegena.”

Hegena’s hand tightens on Jaskier’s to the point of pain. He stays very still.

In a quivering voice, she says, “He was going to kill me. I-he was so angry. So angry. And the only reason I was spared was because…because Horis, he…” The tears spill now, and Hegena’s voice chokes out into a rough sob. Jaskier rubs circles into her back and she leans into him, hot tears sliding down his neck and into the collar of his shirt.

Frauke inhales slowly, then says, “Horis, one of Erold’s closest friends, attempted to interfere and was killed instead. The demon is too strong for me to handle alone. When I heard there was a witcher in town, right when we needed help, it seemed like a miracle.”

Jaskier expects Geralt to say that demons aren’t real and that he doesn’t deal with human affairs, that this is a matter for the law, not a witcher. But he just nods and asks to see the husband.

They go to a little farm house outside of town. It’s dark enough this far in the country that Jaskier walks almost directly on Geralt’s heels, carefully following the group until he can see the house’s lights to guide him. There’s smoke coming out of the chimney, promising that the interior will be nice and warm. It would look cozy, if not for the promised danger.

A second woman stands on the front stoop, arms wrapped around herself protectively. She’s quickly introduced as Melea, Hegena’s older sister. She was the first of them to hear rumors about Geralt’s presence in town and apparently volunteered to keep an eye on Erold while the others went to him for help. It’s clear that the wait wore on her. Melea is pale and lightly trembling, though her jaw is set in a determined line.

They move into the house, walking in one by one so they may each fit through the door. Jaskier stands at the tail end, and so he is the last to see the dark stain across the wooden floor. Geralt catches his elbow before the bard can trod through it, maneuvering Jaskier to the side and slightly behind his shoulder.

The entrance leads directly into the sitting room, where the fireplace flickers and lights up the space on the floor where blood has been hastily cleaned away. Whoever attempted it didn’t get the job done quite fast enough, and the wooden panels soaked up enough that there is a burgundy mark spread about six feet wide, darkest in the center.

The friend. Horis. He died there. Jaskier stares until Geralt nudges him.

“He’s in the bedroom. Tied up, of course,” Melea says, arms still crossed. She stays close to her sister, as if in preparation to act as a human shield if Erold comes barreling out at them. Jaskier slowly wraps his fingers around one of Geralt’s belts.

If Hegena, Melea and Frauke weren’t standing right there, Geralt likely would have told Jaskier to wait outside. He considers Jaskier for a long moment and Jaskier can almost hear his thoughts working. If he tells Jaskier to stay, there’ll no doubt be an argument. Not only would it be bad timing because there’s a demon in the next room to deal with, but their bickering also wouldn’t ease Hegena’s mind. Geralt purses his lips and lets Jaskier follow.

Standing just outside the bedroom door, they can already hear inside. Guttural, tortured groans drawn out until they fade into a wail. And the sound of the man straining against his bindings, the creak of the mattress as he bucks.

Jaskier is struck with a fierce desire to not go into the room. Uneasiness tingles up his neck and a frothy sourness gathers at the back of his tongue. He doesn’t think he _wants_ to know what’s beyond the door. But he can’t stop himself. Jaskier has always been weak against his own curiosity.

Eyes wide, they enter the room. Erold, sweaty and covered in his friend’s blood, is writhing on the bed. His arms and legs are bound with rope to the head and footboard rails, and the wood whines as he tugs against them. Geralt and Frauke inspect the man while Jaskier and the sisters stand by the door and watch.

After a bit, Geralt sighs and looks meaningfully at the priest. “Let’s step outside to talk.”

They leave the room much quicker than they entered. Hegena is silently weeping and walks with her sister’s support. They sit around the dining table. Jaskier stares at the grain pattern and listens silently as they work out a plan. There’s a pit in his stomach that settled at the moment he saw the look in Geralt eyes and recognized the lack of hope. 

At length, it is decided that Frauke will attempt an exorcism, utilizing Geralt’s strength to make sure the demon doesn’t break loose of his bindings and kill again. While it’s plain enough to Jaskier that Geralt doesn’t see the point in this, it’s also obvious that Hegena wants to try. If there is any chance of saving the man, they need to take it. If that fails, Geralt will kill Erold, therefore banishing the demon, as a last resort.

Hegena cries and grabs Geralt’s hand. He tenses at the contact but lets her hold him, doesn’t snap or growl or yank away. Just lets his hand rest limply under hers.

She says, “If he dies with the demon in him, will my husband be damned?” Her voice cracks in the end, but she holds his gaze steadily.

After a pause, Geralt squeezes her hand and says, “No. The demon will abandon a body it can’t use. Your husband’s soul would be free.”

The woman closes her eyes and nods, looking as relieved as she can under the circumstances.

There’s a crash from the bedroom, followed by the sound of glass shattering. “Shit,” Geralt says, and they all leap to their feet, hurtling back to the bedroom. Geralt shoulders into the front and snaps the door open, the lines of his shoulders tense in anticipation. Jaskier resist the urge to grab onto him. A silent moment passes, then Geralt pushes into the room, going perfectly still and then sighing, shoulders drooping with invisible weight. He turns his head back to face them, and Jaskier stands on his tiptoes to see over the sisters and the priest.

Erold is no longer tied down; the ropes that bound him are in pieces, the bedposts buckled apart and tossed, wooden chips and splinters scattered across the wooden floor. Droplets of blood guide Jaskier’s eyes to the window. Jagged shards stand valiantly in the frame, tipped red and dazzling in the sliver of light. Erold apparently hadn’t the patience to bother with the old, rusted latch.

Geralt points at Jaskier, his eyes narrowed. “Stay here,” he says, like he always does. There’s something in his face that sits cold in Jaskier’s stomach as he watches Geralt and Frauke run out the door and into the surrounding forest, chasing the possessed man.

Jaskier and the sisters wind up sitting on the front stoop, their feet hanging off the end and onto the grass below. Before coming out, they collected whatever weapons they could find, though Jaskier has no idea what the vulnerabilities of a demon might be, beyond old stories about holy symbols. Regardless, he keeps a firm grip on his silver dagger, staring out into the trees and listening hard for the sounds of fighting. Melea has a garden hoe, and Hegena idly carves lines into the wooden step with one of her sharpened kitchen knives.

As time passes, Melea inches closer to her sister and stills her hand, settling the knife flat between them. Jaskier does his best not to eavesdrop on whatever soothing words she whispers, though it goes against his nature to do so. The woods remain silent.

Anxiety gets the better of Jaskier, and he abruptly gets to his feet. He hands his dagger over to Melea. “Use it and scream if Erold returns alone,” he says, before taking off in the direction Geralt and Frauke disappeared to. He would feel guilty about leaving them if he thought he stood any chance as a defender, but as it stands, he doubts he’d be much help. And frankly, he cares about Geralt more.

Jaskier bolts into the trees, listening and running somewhat aimlessly until he hears shouting ahead of him. He stumbles to a stop, heart pounding as he determines that he’s hearing Frauke, not the sisters, and then starts off again, adjusting his course to follow the noise, moving as cautiously as a worried man can. Before long, the trees thin out and Jaskier sidles up to peek through the brush into a small clearing.

He sees them then. Geralt and Erold are knelt on the ground, the witcher tucked up behind the husband and wrapped tightly around him, pressing a dagger to his throat. Erold howls and writhes like a scared animal, his eyes seeking frantically for an escape as spit bubbles between his parted lips. His hands, twisted like claws, dig and scrape at any inch of Geralt he can get to, focused mainly on his armored forearm, but also reaching back and trying for his face. Geralt leans forward and presses his weight on Erold until the man wheezes, the sharp angle stopping him from stretching his arm far back enough to touch.

As Geralt and Erold wrestle, Frauke paces back and forth in front of them, one hand on his heart and the other aimed towards the sky. He’s speaking quickly, trying to get through the words before Geralt loses his hold. It isn’t a language Jaskier knows, but the priest speaks adamantly, as if making demands instead of begging for help. Jaskier hopes he’s shouting at the demon, and not a god.

Jaskier’s hiding place in the trees is almost exactly opposite Geralt, though they are several yards apart. Geralt’s jaw is clenched shut, and there’s a resignation in his expression that pinches across Jaskier’s chest.

Geralt, drawn by the crunch of boots, glances up and sees Jaskier. It doesn’t seem possible that his mood can darken, but Jaskier sees that it does. _At least the sisters are safe if the demon is here_ , Jaskier thinks, trying to release himself from some guilt as Geralt stares at him and tightens his hold on the possessed man.

The priest continues his exorcism and it occurs to Jaskier that if this works and the demon rockets out of the man, or apparently even if it doesn’t work and the demon springs free from a dead body, Jaskier is vulnerable to demonic possession. Maybe. His understanding of demon behavior is strictly derived from scary stories his brother used to tell him and a few novels he’s skimmed through.

The priest seems to finish his ritual, dropping his hand from the air and pressing it to Erold’s forehead as the man continues to thrash and scream. They all hold their positions and wait. And wait. Nothing happens. Frauke desperately repeats the last phrases, but it doesn’t appear to do anything. Devastation seeps into his features and he murmurs something that sounds very final, makes a symbol with his hands and then steps away, bowing his head.

Geralt sighs and says something in Erold’s ear. Then he locks eyes with Jaskier before swiftly dragging his blade across the possessed man’s throat. A glut of blood spills out and Jaskier’s heart clenches at the horrible sight, with grief for this little family, so new and so recently hopeful.

Geralt holds the man close while he bleeds out, seemingly unaffected as the man’s hands scramble and try to loosen the witcher’s grip on him. His frantic movements gradually slow until Geralt can shift his grip on him, moving them both around so Erold is almost cradled in his arms. Once the twitching stops and Erold is dead, Geralt finally looks away from Jaskier and lowers the body gently to the ground. There’s a long moment of nothing, then Geralt rises.

Jaskier steps out of the trees and approaches, trying not to look as sheepish as he feels. The three of them hover around the body for some time, watching the last drops of blood eke out. Unable to stand the silence any longer, Jaskier asks, “Should we take the body back?”

Geralt looks hesitant but nods. “If you don’t think my presence would worsen matters for the wife.”

Jaskier tries to touch him but Geralt jumps under his hand and Jaskier lets him go.

Geralt hefts Erold up into his arms and carries him back through the forest, directing Jaskier to stay in front of him. Frauke leads the way, apparently familiar with the wooded area, and it doesn’t take long at all before they’re back at the house.

Hegena stands, and her eyes are wide and hopeful for a moment before she takes in exactly what approaches her and lets out a scream. Melea gasps and tugs her sister in close, holding her while Geralt and Frauke step into the house. Jaskier keeps back, observing from a distance while the body is lowered to the floor, disturbingly close to the older bloodstain. Hegena and Melea slide down beside Erold, putting their hands on him and sobbing. Geralt and Frauke stand a few feet away until Frauke, apparently overwhelmed with his own emotion, drops to his knees.

Geralt doesn’t startle and keeps his vigil.

The tears slow, and Hegena sluggishly gets to her feet, closely followed by her sister. She stares at Geralt, her chest heaving as she approaches. The witcher doesn’t close his eyes against her stark emotions, and doesn’t try to spare himself by fleeing. He just watches as she takes the final steps towards him.

Hegena grabs at Frauke’s shoulder and tugs until he rises. Her eyes are hot as they twitch between the two men, her lips tucked between her teeth. Jaskier worries that she’s going to take her rage out on them and isn’t sure if he should try to stop it or let her get it out.

Instead, she presses her head onto Geralt’s chest, her whole body releasing into shivers.

Hegena says, “Thank you for doing what you could.” Geralt inhales, and Hegena shifts with it. After a moment, he wraps uncertain arms around her and holds.

Much later, they leave and return to the inn in town where they trudge up to their room. They’re very quiet once they’re there, Jaskier sitting on the edge of the bed while Geralt cleans his blade, jaw still clenched.

Jaskier crosses the room to stand before him. He gently takes the hand that is holding the dagger and pulls the weapon from him, returns it to its sheath. “Get dressed for bed, Geralt.”

Geralt stares at him, then stands, not moving away when he yanks his shirt off. He looks down at Jaskier, and there is something dangerous there. A suggestion of something. Jaskier just takes the shirt from him and walks away, not wanting to interpret whatever that look meant. Geralt continues into his sleeping clothes and Jaskier does the same.

They approach the bed and stand staring at it, neither of them making a move to lie down. The silence between them grows into something almost smothering. Jaskier is about to say something just to make it stop when Geralt says, “We shouldn’t sleep in the same bed.”

Jaskier frowns. “I can’t imagine why not.”

Something flashes across Geralt’s face, there and gone before Jaskier can even try to identify it. He waits until Geralt is already on the bed before slipping under the covers. They arrange themselves until Jaskier is turned into Geralt’s back. It’s so dark in the room with the candle out that Geralt is a dark mountain of warmth.

Jaskier presses his palm into his back and says, “I’m sorry.”

A long pause. “You shouldn’t have been there.”

Jaskier huffs. “That’s not what I meant.”

Geralt rolls in the bed to face him. He’s propped up on his elbow and he looks down at Jaskier, who can’t see his expression but doubts it’s happy. “I told you to stay. Why don’t you ever listen?”

Jaskier licks his lips and can’t think of anything to say but, “You know why.”

It sits quiet between them. Jaskier waits, heart flickering to life.

Geralt deflates, slumping down onto his back. Hums. “Anything for a story, huh?”

Jaskier closes his eyes and rolls onto his back as well, shoulder to shoulder with Geralt. “I’m sorry that you had to…do that. I know you don’t like it when innocent people die, especially not when you’re forced to get involved.”

“I just did what I could.” Geralt repeats Hegena’s words like they’re sour in his mouth, probably something to do with him feeling like he’s lacking, like there should have been more he could do. Jaskier shakes his head.

“Don’t torture yourself. It’s not like you did it for fun.”

“Hmm.” Then Geralt rolls again so his back is once more facing Jaskier. The bard sighs and follows him, slowly shifting forward and pressing his forehead between Geralt’s shoulder blades, running a soothing hand over his shoulder until they both fall asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many names in this one. Sorry about that. This chapter is roughly inspired by something that was mentioned in passing in the books (I think Season of Storms but no guarantee because it all blends together for me).  
> And I forgot to mention that I am also stympahalides on tumblr if anyone feels like talking over there.


	18. Oxenfurt

Their wandering brings them near the area of Oxenfurt and Jaskier casually mentions that they’d receive a warm welcome and a free room if they dropped by, though Jaskier will probably have to step into a few lecture halls and maybe say a few words here and there.

Geralt looks at him like he doesn’t know how often Jaskier visits the university, or that for the last few years he has been called on as a guest lecturer. It’s possible Geralt has a hard time believing that Jaskier could have been a good enough student to be asked back instead of being asked to never set foot on campus again. It’s also possible that Geralt doesn’t think anyone would want to listen to Jaskier speak, as he likes to suggest that the bard can’t actually sing very well.

Jaskier just says, “I graduated with honors, you know.” Geralt snorts, and Jaskier presses. “I have also written a number of successful songs that have caught traction since I graduated. Why wouldn’t students want to hear about the reality of what they’re training for?”

In truth, it’s also strange and hard for Jaskier to comprehend why they want him to speak. And- something he doesn’t think he’ll mention because he doesn’t want Geralt to tell him he should do it- he gets periodic requests to stick around and become a professor, meaning that he would be here all the time.

“Should I warn the other witchers? When the bards come, lay down your pride and flee?” Geralt asks, his voice quirked and teasing.

Jaskier arches a brow at him. “ _Or_ you could tell them what a wonderful travel companion I’ve been. Maybe they’ll all want bard companions. It would certainly make witchers easier to find.”

They adjust their route for Oxenfurt. It doesn’t take long for them to breach the first ring of the city, stepping into the lively townlet that revolves both literally and figuratively around the campus. The streets are narrow and crowded with entertainment and people trying to squeeze through and make their way to various shops, taverns, inns and workshops. Performers bounce around, demanding to be heard and seen, while merchants wander in front of their stands and shout offers. The buildings are made of bright wood and are each topped with a colorful roof, as if the city’s structure can’t help but express itself as a home of art and progress. 

Jaskier is instantly brought back to his university days, these familiar streets and stores and sights.

He expects that he’s going to be giving Geralt the grand tour, that he’s going to be showing off his old stomping grounds, but when he gestures widely and says, “Here it is,” Geralt just nods, visibly unimpressed.

Catching the look Jaskier gives him, Geralt shrugs and says, “I attended a few guest lectures during my training.”

Jaskier gapes at him. “When?” He tries to imagine their paths crossing unnoticed, as if Jaskier had somehow not noted a witcher sitting several seats over, and had similarly missed the inevitable whispers that follow Geralt. And then he’s struck by the thought of a young Geralt. Bright eyed and eager to start his life as a monster slayer. Or maybe he’d always been glowering and morose.

“Years ago. Long before you.” Geralt thinks about this, and so does Jaskier. He forgets sometimes that Geralt is so much older than him.

“I don’t suppose we would’ve been in the same classes, anyway.” Jaskier smiles wryly. “Unless you’re about to reveal your secret passion for musical theory, or that you can play the vielle. Imagine that! I’d only be bitter that you held out on me for so long.”

Geralt stares at him for enough time that Jaskier half expects him to say that a _ctually_ he worked exclusively with a psaltery, but Geralt just rolls his eyes and says, “You’re right. Not unless you were sitting in on demonology classes.”

Jaskier shrugs. “If I’d known where I was going to end up I might’ve.”

They walk around, Jaskier receiving his normal greetings from familiar faces- old professors, fellow students who became new professors, or are continuing and deepening their education. Many of them eyeball Geralt before approaching, but Jaskier’s proximity to the witcher is apparently a good enough signal that he won’t lose it and start stabbing at random, and they don’t keep away for long.

Jaskier hadn’t really considered it, but he’s suddenly relieved that most of the people here who knew him as a boy are respectful enough to use his chosen name. It’s not that he can’t explain it to Geralt, but he thinks it might be weird to only bring it up after all these years. And he doesn’t necessarily mind if it never comes up at all. Geralt probably wouldn’t care anyway.

When they finally get some time alone, Jaskier bumps their shoulders and asks, “Is it the same?”

Geralt looks around at the shops surrounding them, contemplating. “Somewhat. They’ve reassigned some of the halls, and a few of the shops are different.”

“Ah. That makes sense.”

Eventually, an old man bustles out of a shop, calling out, “Jaskier!”

He’s short and stout, more similar to a dwarf in stature than a human. There’s a permanent ruddiness around his nose and cheeks, as if he’s always overwhelmed by a mysterious chill. His hair, surprisingly thick for his age, is stark white with only a few coppery strands to suggest its youthful color. It’s slicked down neatly and doesn’t move at all as he scurries across the road to meet them.

Geralt, who is positioned between the elderly man and Jaskier, sees him approaching and, likely for the first time, shifts to stand behind Jaskier so the man can get to him first, unimpeded. Jaskier laughs, reaches his arms out and the old man grasps his hands. He smells like tobacco and spices. Familiar and warm.

Jaskier shifts to indicate Geralt and introduces him. “The Witcher Geralt of Rivia.”

“Ah! Of course! Good to meet you, of course. Heard so much!” That’s about where his interest in Geralt ends, which isn’t what either Geralt or Jaskier is used to but it’s not an unwelcome change.

Jaskier waves a hand out to present the old man. “And this is Radoslaw, professor of Music Cultures of the World.” Geralt, who has plastered a tight smile over his face to cover up how overwhelming he finds the professor’s energy, nods.

Radoslaw says “This is a great surprise! I saw you through the window and rushed to see that it was truly you.”

Jaskier grins wide. “We were just passing through, hoping for rooms and a good, warm meal.”

Radoslaw beams and claps his hands together in a great boom. Several passersby glance in their direction, but the sound goes mostly unnoticed in the general hubbub. “Of course, of course!”

Radoslaw pats Jaskier’s arm and guides them to the faculty residence buildings, where professors might live if they want to stay on campus. They move from the outer ring of Oxenfurt into the center, and Jaskier watches as Geralt’s shoulders lose some of their tension. He hadn’t complained and generally seemed to be enjoying himself, but Jaskier imagines the crowded streets are a little oppressive.

Radoslaw leads them both to adjoining rooms and says that they can leave their things here and he’ll have someone bring up bedding for the night, or for however long they choose to stay. He gives Jaskier a meaningful look during the last bit, which Jaskier politely ignores. Before leaving, Radoslaw adds that he’ll meet them back here in the evening and treat them to dinner at a nearby restaurant. Jaskier glances to Geralt to check in before nodding. Then Radoslaw goes.

Geralt and Jaskier put their things away in their separate rooms. Jaskier has had similar boarding on previous visits, and so the space is familiar and almost homey. He takes his time organizing his things before meeting Geralt in the hall.

Once they’re back outside, the air sweet and pleasantly cool, Geralt says, “You’re well liked here.”

“I’m well liked _everywhere_ ,” Jaskier retorts. “Anywhere in particular you want to visit or would you just like to wander around?”

Geralt gestures for Jaskier to lead the way, and he does. They spend the rest of the day popping into little shops and hovering around various stands and performances. Jaskier steers them through the outskirts to keep Geralt comfortable, though he dips through the denser crowds on occasion to reach a particular area. Geralt sticks close to his side; near enough that their knuckles brush and Jaskier has to fight the urge to latch on and pretend it’s only to keep from losing each other.

Jaskier tells stories about the trouble he used to get into here and there, the people he was with and the people he was _with_. Geralt inserts a few of his own tales, though they’re much less scandalous and usually start and end with _This is the same_ or _I stopped here for a drink once or twice_.

The streets are getting more crowded with students and professors recently freed from their scholarly duties and heading out for their afternoon fun, groaning about classes and workload and determined to decompress before it all starts again, or to procrastinate just to the edge of reason.

Jaskier is light and content from a good day. It feels like he has taken Geralt on vacation, and seeing his friend relax and have fun outside of their normal routine leaves Jaskier warm. And quite pleased with himself. Maybe they should take trips like this more often? Get away for a while. 

Jaskier suggests that they go freshen up before their meeting with Radoslaw. Geralt agrees and they circle around to return to the faculty housing. 

They clean quickly and Jaskier changes into something a little nicer. Purple silk, embroidered with thin, crawling vines that bend and twist and climb all around him, with budding flowers set in a darker shade. Ostentatious, for sure. But they’re in Oxenfurt.

Geralt has replaced his armor with a clean, black cotton shirt. Same pants as always. He has tucked his swords away somewhere, though Jaskier can only guess that he’s leaving them behind in the room. For all he knows, the other man has them on his person, and Jaskier wouldn’t even be surprised if he pulled them out, though looking at him reveals no odd lumps or suggestive rods.

Jaskier has never really worked out how anyone can stuff their clothes with so many blades without constantly jabbing themselves, revealing dozens of nicks and holes when they undress. But what does he know? Maybe every time Geralt sits down, he gets a knife up his arse.

Jaskier grins and says, “You look nice.” The witcher hardly looks different than he usually does without armor, but Jaskier won’t deny he admires him. 

Geralt decides he’s joking and snorts. Jaskier allows it. Geralt also doesn’t offer an opinion on how Jaskier looks, which is unsurprising and easily forgiven. Jaskier _knows_ he looks nice, and undoubtedly Geralt knows it too.

They meet with Radoslaw, who _does_ comment on Jaskier’s doublet, which makes Jaskier preen. It also makes Geralt glance between him and his old professor questioningly (Jaskier wonders if he’ll ask or if he’ll just come to his own conclusion to live with. Jaskier has to bite his lip to keep himself from saying that no, he absolutely never fucked and will never fuck Radoslaw, thanks), then seems to reassess what Jaskier is wearing.

It’s not special to Geralt, of course, because he has seen Jaskier wear these clothes often enough, usually walking down a dirt road or prancing around a tavern. But Radoslaw seems to think they’re nice, and they _are_ nice. It’s just that Jaskier can’t exactly set clothes aside for special occasions and usually has to go to a tailor before performing for nobles. And he likes to dress this way.

They walk to a nearby restaurant. It’s on the higher end, frequented by professors and older students. The well-established. Jaskier only ever got to go after he graduated and his way was paid for by acquaintances or someone trying to talk him into a permanent position.

They get a table and order their food and wine, then chat for a while. Radoslaw asks them both questions and they catch up. Geralt is his usual asocial self, settling into being very polite and very quiet, letting Jaskier take the lead. Jaskier also directs the questions away from anything that Geralt usually gets touchy about.

They’re done eating and just sipping on wine when Radoslaw grins a bit sheepishly and says, “Now that you’re buttered up...”

Jaskier nearly chokes in his rush to stop the impending conversation. “Oh, please, no. Let’s not.” He’s surprised at just how frustrated he sounds already. He might blame the wine, or the fact that his visits always wind down this road.

Geralt tenses almost immediately at the abrupt change in tone, his eyes flicking between them as if searching for barbs. Jaskier doesn’t want Geralt to hear this. It takes all his power not to stand and drag his friend off with a hasty and impolite goodbye.

Instead, he tries to quickly nip it in the bud. “I’ll save you the time: my position hasn’t changed.”

Radoslaw tries not to look ruffled. “Yes, yes. But I would be remiss if I didn’t at least try to—”

Jaskier cuts him off with a near-violent handwave. “I appreciate you thinking of me, but I really—”

“The students value your lectures, and the university would love to offer you a permanent position on the staff.” He says it quickly, plowing over Jaskier’s attempts to interrupt. He looks satisfied to have gotten the full statement out, and tips his head to Jaskier, allowing any rebuttal.

Jaskier makes the mistake of glancing at Geralt, whose brows are furrowed, whose lips are in a thin line and who is looking very directly at Jaskier.

Jaskier sighs. “As I’ve already said; no thank you.”

“Just think about it, Jaskier. That’s all I can ask.” Radoslaw takes a long sip of wine, clearly preparing for something unpleasant. 

Jaskier grits his teeth. “Radoslaw, _please_ ,” he begs, knowing the next phase of the conversation and hoping that just this once they can skip over it. 

“I worry for you, that’s all. It’s just an old man’s concern for the young.” He presses a hand to his heart, convincingly distressed, and then looks pointedly at Geralt. “You understand.”

Geralt blinks and then nods. Jaskier deflates.

The conversation is slightly stilted from there. Jaskier drinks more wine than he might have otherwise and Geralt somehow gets quieter. Radoslaw has definitely had too much to drink, and they don’t stay much longer.

They walk Radoslaw to his office, where he apparently plans to sleep it off before heading to his off-campus home. Or starting his workday, whichever happens first. Then Geralt and Jaskier head to their own rooms.

Geralt has to occasionally offer Jaskier support, gripping his bicep a little too hard to keep him on his feet and direct him. They’re outside the building, the air cool and the lights from the windows seeping yellow into the night. Instead of heading straight to the door, however, Geralt leads them off the walkway into a fenced-in garden. There are signs stuck in the dirt with names and basic information about each plant, and a few in more clear-to-see spots demanding that no one picks or otherwise spoils the flowers.

All Jaskier can think about is getting out of his boots and sleeping, but Geralt turns him so they’re face to face and asks, “You’ve had that conversation before?”

“Which one?” Jaskier rubs at his eyes and considers passing out here between the bushes.

Geralt’s face is hard. “A place for you. Here.”

“Ah.” Jaskier fiddles with his sleeve, carefully avoiding his friend’s eyes. “Yeah, basically every time I visit.”

“He said he was worried.”

Jaskier shuffles his feet. “He did.”

Geralt is quiet for a long time, probably waiting for Jaskier to explain. When it becomes clear that the bard isn’t going to continue without prompting, Geralt sighs. “Why?”

Jaskier shrugs.

A moment passes, and then Geralt takes him by the shoulders and slides him down onto a nearby bench. Jaskier realizes that this is going to go on for a while and if he ever wants to get to sleep, he should talk. “It’s nothing, Geralt. He’s worried that…well, the usual reasons someone would worry.” Geralt shakes his head, indicating that he wants elaboration. Jaskier spits it out as blithely as he can manage. “He thinks I’m going to die on the road.”

Geralt’s face contorts. “Because of me?” His voice is surprisingly soft.

Jaskier shakes his head and rests his hand on Geralt’s arm, squeezing. “No. It’s just that traveling bards have a risky lifestyle. At least, compared to a professor or someone with a permanent place at court or something like that.”

“You haven’t even considered it?”

“No,” Jaskier says, and it’s true.

Geralt takes a deep breath. “Why not?”

The truth, in all its fullness and complexity, is too daunting. Jaskier lets his hand drop from Geralt’s shoulder, and the witcher blinks, looking unhappy with the loss of contact. Jaskier watches his hand twitch as if to reach out, and so sees when it stays in place.

“I’m not an old man, you know.” The words come out too sharp, and Jaskier takes a moment to soften his voice before speaking again. “I’ll be running around with you for a while yet before I settle down. If ever.”

Geralt arches a brow. “If ever?”

“ _Well_.” Jaskier gestures between them, not entirely sure what he’s trying to say but hoping Geralt can draw his own conclusions. Apparently not.

Geralt’s temper peeks through, and the edge in his voice makes Jaskier’s stomach ache. “Well?”

Jaskier groans. “Sweet Melitele, Geralt! Why are we having this conversation?” He digs the heels of his hands to his temples and presses hard. Exhaustion is rolling over him like a tide, and if they could just wait and have this discussion when he isn’t ready to conk out, it would surely go a lot smoother.

Geralt opens his mouth to say something, or maybe _shout_ something, when an old unfriendly voice says, “Ah! What do we have here?”

Jaskier looks at Geralt and drawls, “Just what I needed.”

Geralt’s brow furls and he looks from Jaskier to Valdo Marx. Valdo looks trim and proper as always, decorated in a well-tailored outfit that flatters him in all ways. He is wearing a deep blue vest speckled with stones that make his chest look like the night sky. The sleeves of his undershirt are long and billowy, cinching at his wrists with delicate lace trim. And, to top it all off, his spun-gold hair has been neatly curled. The man looks wonderful. 

Valdo glances at Geralt and valiantly tries to look uninterested.

Jaskier sits up straighter, suddenly wide awake. “Wonderful as always to see you, Valdo.”

Valdo smiles indulgently, the fucker. “Of course.” He makes no effort to conceal how his eyes rake over Jaskier. “It seems that you returned to Oxenfurt just in time. It’s plain to see from your dusty doublet and worn boots that your travels have tired you.”

“Ah, yes.” Jaskier grins with all his teeth. “Seeing the world can be exhausting, but it also has the effect of preventing my music from getting tired and dull. You might find it useful yourself to have a few adventures.”

Valdo nods. “Perhaps. Hmm. All that time in the sun does burden the skin, though.” He jumps as if he’s just thought of the most wonderful thing. His smile glitters. “I know a local herbalist who might be able to brew a special ointment or cream to sort that out for you, Jaskier.” 

“Is that how you keep your skin smooth and white as a pearl?” He tilts his head and makes a show of studying Valdo. “You’re nearly translucent, Valdo. It’s as if you haven’t been touched by the sun in decades.” 

Somehow the rhythm of this is making him feel better. Normal.

Geralt looks a little out of it, watching them volley insults back and forth. They go on like that for a while before he tires of it. Without preamble, Geralt hooks an arm around Jaskier and levers him up to his feet. Jaskier has just enough time to catch Valdo’s nonplussed expression before he’s dragged back up to his room.

Geralt waits for him to unlock the door, then lightly kicks it open and proceeds to drop Jaskier onto his bed. The bard groans loudly and tries to snuggle into the pillow, prepared to sleep as he is. Geralt sighs. He grabs Jaskier’s legs and maneuvers him around so they hang off the bed, then helps Jaskier wriggle out of his boots. While Geralt is at his feet, Jaskier pulls off his doublet and sets it aside, then starts undoing the laces of his trousers, rolling to his side so he can reach his arm to his lower back and work on them one-handed. When the boots are off, Jaskier starts shoving his trousers down, sighing and going limp when it turns out to be too much work for him.

Geralt makes an amused noise and grabs the waistline before roughly yanking them down and off. The gesture jerks Jaskier down the bed a little, and nearly topples him to the floor. Jaskier makes a suggestive noise, wriggling his brows, which earns him a full Geralt laugh and a smack on the calf that smarts _probably_ more than intended.

Once they have wrestled Jaskier into a sleeping shirt and suppressed a wave of nausea, Geralt takes a final look around the room and goes to the door. “Lock it when I leave,” he says.

Jaskier waves him off with a muffled, “Sweet dreams.” Geralt hums in response before slipping away out of the room.

When he wakes in the morning, Jaskier is only slightly groggy from the night before. All traces of Geralt’s frustration seem to be gone, and Jaskier wonders if maybe he didn’t blow that whole thing out of proportion.

Jaskier is picking at his breakfast with a fork, reorganizing it into what he thinks he can bare to eat and what must immediately be exiled to Geralt’s plate. He’s very concentrated on his task when Geralt speaks.

“Who was that man last night?” After a moment, he adds, “The other bard?”

Jaskier transfers the _bad_ food to Geralt before answering. “Valdo Marx. I’d hardly call him a bard.”

Geralt looks at him skeptically.

Jaskier huffs. “No really, listen to this.” Quickly and mostly under his breath, he sings a verse of one of Valdo’s songs. Geralt waits for him to finish, tilting his head to the side as if to illustrate that he is, in fact, listening. 

Jaskier finishes with a flourish and Geralt looks at him knowingly. “Do you learn all of your rival’s songs?”

Jaskier makes a face. “After hearing that nonsense, would you believe that Valdo claimed that I am ‘ _a talentless wastrel who panders to the taste of the masses’_? That’s exactly what he said, too. Not to my face, of course.”

Geralt only laughs. The bastard. 

They spend the rest of the day just relaxing and having fun, dropping by a few places and eating too much. It’s very nice. They don’t address their argument from the night before, and Jaskier almost forgets that it happened at all, lost in his enjoyment. 

Jaskier is eventually dragged into a lecture to say a few words and answer questions. Geralt sits in the back corner nearest the door, which he says will be nostalgic for him seeing how that’s where he spent most of the lectures that he attended all those years ago. The light is dim enough and the students either so focused or so out of focus that they don’t seem to register that there’s a witcher in the room. Jaskier talks and when class ends a few students stay back to chat with him.

Once the hall is empty but for Jaskier, Geralt and the professor, Jaskier ushers Geralt down. They briefly talk with the professor, who says “Well, you know we’re always happy to have you here. And your companion.”

For a moment, Jaskier indulges himself in the fantasy that he takes up the offer and stays at Oxenfurt, and that Geralt stays with him. He shoves the idea away quickly.

When they leave Jaskier asks “How did you like it?” 

Geralt grins. “You were surprisingly good.” 

“It’s not that surprising that I’m a good public speaker.”

“Hmm. Maybe not. But you were…patient. And engaging. That’s all I mean.”

A smile pulls across Jaskier’s face, and he tries to meet Geralt’s eyes. The witcher resists, however, keeping his attention straight ahead as they make their way down the cobbled streets, shaking off their detour into professionalism and easily returning to their venture for good food and varied pleasures.

Jaskier might have liked to stay in Oxenfurt a little longer, but later that evening they find a noticeboard and it spells the doom of their vacation. There’s a bounty in a nearby town for a beast that lurks in the woods and chews on exploring children. They’re back in their rooms packing their things to leave almost immediately. 

Just before they cross the bridge and leave Oxenfurt behind them, Geralt looks at Jaskier meaningfully and, voice low, asks, “Sure?”

Jaskier playfully bumps into his shoulder. “How could I say no to mysterious, hungry beasts?”

And they go together. 


	19. Witchers

Jaskier is at a market when the rumors reach him. Locals whisper about a witcher wandering around the outskirts of town. Apparently, someone’s nephew saw him leading his horse up the road, slow and weary enough that it’s assumed inevitable that he’ll stop and rest. Jaskier hunts around for details, asking if anyone knows what the witcher looked like and whether he’s been seen since the first sighting. Mainly he gets shrugs and headshakes, but a few people give him half-heard, possibly entirely false leads. Either way, the town is small enough that Jaskier would have to hide from Geralt to avoid him.

Jaskier follows the noise to the local inn, knowing that it’s one of the first places Geralt will go if he’s as exhausted as people claim. A quick check into the stables reveals that Roach hasn’t been housed there. He supposes one of the unfamiliar horses could be a new Roach, but he prefers to think not. Jaskier nods at a red dun before ducking out and hurrying to the inn.

The dining area isn’t crowded, and none of the faces are the one Jaskier is looking for. He goes to the bar and takes a seat. The innkeeper must notice how antsy the bard looks, and kindly drops a drink before him. Jaskier gives him his most charming smile and asks, “Is it true there’s a witcher staying here?”

The man sighs, “ _Yeah_ ,” like he’s extremely put out over it. Hard to imagine that Geralt has brought anything to the inn except coin and the patronage of those who want to get a good look at him. Such as Jaskier, who bites his tongue for once.

He waits for Geralt to appear. Time inches along sluggishly, and Jaskier orders another drink, considers just making his way up the stairs and being as noisy as possible until Geralt hears him and reveals himself just to make Jaskier shut up. But the innkeeper already seems put off by having a witcher here, and Jaskier wouldn’t want Geralt to lose his room over a little fun. Plus, Jaskier isn’t in the mood to be lectured.

He’s still pondering this when someone walks down the stairs, boots clipping with a familiar brusque gait, the heaviness of someone who could easily go unheard but has decided not to. Jaskier takes a gulp of ale and swivels around in his seat to look, prepared to launch into a dramatic speech about twists of fate and what a coincidence this is. And then nearly inhales his drink because yes, it is _a_ witcher but it isn’t _Geralt_.

It has never even occurred to him that he could just happen upon a different witcher. It’s never happened before, and it’s rare that he even hears another witcher mentioned by anyone other than Geralt. Sure, townspeople like to say that witchers are a certain way or that they’re all the same, pretending like they cycle through town one after another. But Jaskier always assumed they were talking out of their arses or making assumptions based on the same old meritless stories everyone has heard.

This witcher is tall and strong but less bulky than Geralt. His hair is a chestnut brown, kept twisted in a neat bun. Unlike Geralt’s clean shave, this witcher has a rather thick but neatly trimmed beard. It nearly covers the dark scar that starts below his ear and reaches out to just before the corner of his lip. Instead of the expected familiar amber, his eyes have an unnatural yellow-green tinge. He seems to glide across the room, moving to the door with an easy grace. 

Some would say that Jaskier has no sense of self-preservation. _But_ he knows a witcher, has been up close and personal, and he really doesn’t think there’s anything to fear. Geralt has talked about other witchers like they’re his brothers. He spends every winter with some, and he has never told Jaskier that he should avoid them. Even if this man is a dick, it’s not likely he’ll actually gut Jaskier in the street, and Jaskier can take a punch if that’s what it comes down to. So, he follows. He makes no attempt at stalking the witcher or even of being discrete. Jaskier knows there’s no point.

He trots to catch up, hand flexing on the strap of his lute to keep it from flapping too wildly against his back, and says, “Hello, Witcher!” It comes out a hint more shouty than he’d wanted, partially because he’s out of breath but also because he’s excited. His greeting earns him a look that would send anyone else running, but Jaskier just smiles and plows ahead. “Here for work or pleasure?”

A line appears between the witcher’s brows, and the stiffness of him, the frustration he radiates and the confusion marking his face is so reminiscent of the early days with Geralt that it almost sends Jaskier reeling.

The witcher looks around like he might find someone to come fetch Jaskier, but he returns his eyes to the bard, chagrined. “Would anyone find pleasure in such a small town?” he grumbles. His jaw is clenched and the words come out roughly. His voice is much deeper than Geralt’s, rumbling from deep in his chest like thunder through a cave. 

Jaskier can’t help himself. “The truly wise can find pleasure anywhere,” he says huskily. The witcher’s eyes flicker. Something warm tickles down Jaskier’s stomach.

“Work,” the witcher says, abruptly turning his face to the road ahead.

If Jaskier wasn’t so amused, he’d be disappointed. “Ooh, interesting,” he says breathily. “What kind of work?”

“Witchering,” the witcher answers impatiently, picking his pace up. Jaskier almost tells him that it’s no use trying to run from a man who has spent a vast amount of his time marching alongside a horse, but he doesn’t want to challenge him just yet. He’d hate to have to go back to Geralt and say that he met another witcher and immediately sent him running. Geralt would find it too funny.

“More specifically?” Jaskier asks, using the same tone he does when plying information from Geralt.

A skeptical look. “Maybe you can imagine.”

“I can imagine it very well,” he says imperiously. “My dearest friend is a witcher, and we often travel together.” 

The witcher snorts and turns a doubtful eye on Jaskier. “And who is this soft-hearted witcher who is willing to travel with a man in silks?”

Jaskier glares. “Do you not listen to music?”

There’s a very heavy pause. The witcher stops walking and turns to fully look at Jaskier, who nearly tumbles into him, unprepared for his startled reaction. The witcher’s eyes focus on the lute strung across Jaskier’s back, and stay there for some time.

“Ah.” He drags his eyes from Jaskier and continues walking. Slower now. A grin pulls across his face and he says, “You’re the one singing our praises, then? Toss a Coin to your Witcher?”

Jaskier preens. “Yes, that’s me.”

“Mm. It’s been helpful in some parts.” The tension eases from the witcher’s shoulders. It turns out that he has quite a nice smile. Dimples, of all things. “What is your name?”

Jaskier straightens. “Jaskier. And you?”

His tongue darts over his teeth. Reluctantly, he answers, “Kolgrim.”

It’s not one of the names Geralt has mentioned, Jaskier’s sure. That doesn’t necessarily mean anything, as getting information from Geralt can be like pulling teeth, but it’s also a little disappointing that he isn’t meeting with one of Geralt’s brothers.

“So,” Jaskier idles. There is probably a more sensitive way to word the question, but it doesn’t immediately come to mind and curiosity wins out. “You aren’t from the School of the Wolf?”

A slim smile. “No, I’m not.”

Jaskier waits, but Kolgrim doesn’t continue. “Then which order are you part of?”

Kolgrim scratches his nose, considering Jaskier. Then he flips his index finger under the silver chain at his neck and pulls up a heavy medallion. Jaskier steps closer to inspect. It’s nothing like Geralt’s; instead of a howling wolf inlay, the man’s amulet shows two dancing snakes, their bodies laced together, leaving openings that Jaskier could slip his fingers into and tug. He reaches to touch, but Kolgrim quickly tucks the medallion back under his shirts.

Jaskier doesn’t miss his quick swallow when he explains, “School of the Viper.” 

“Ah,” Jaskier says, nodding like that was obvious. Maybe it should have been. If he wasn’t so distracted.

They talk for some time, Kolgrim reluctantly answering each of his questions. They move off the road and settle down on a knoll overgrown with flowers and sunbaked weeds, sitting across from each other like children. Kolgrim absently pulls up grass and drops the shreds into a growing pile, and Jaskier itches to pull out his lute or notebook, to start composing, but resists. For now.

Jaskier wheedles him into saying that he’s on a job collecting weapons diagrams. Kolgrim doesn’t explain exactly what that means or why he’s doing it, or who for since Jaskier is pretty sure the Viper School is officially inactive like all the others. Then again, who knows what inactive even means in this case. The Wolves still gather in their keep, it tracks that Vipers work together.

Something catches Jaskier’s notice and he leans in conspiratorially. “My friend Geralt carries swords. You don’t seem to have any.”

Kolgrim nods. It’s easier to get him to share than Geralt. Years with the man, and he still doesn’t want to share the story behind the pendant that was clearly not part of the original design of his sword, based on how the edges stand out on otherwise neat workmanship. 

Insouciant, Kolgrim pulls his blades from where they were hidden near his hips and presents them to Jaskier, one in each hand. Silver and steel, a constant between orders. 

“My fangs,” Kolgrim says with a smug grin, and Jaskier laughs because _wow_.

They’re old but nice from what Jaskier can see. The hilts are made of a strange material, like lizard skin, and has little ridges that likely improve the grip. The blades themselves are long and dangerously sharp, so neatly polished that Jaskier can see his distorted reflection and sunlight glints painfully off the surface. Each one is about the length of Kolgrim’s forearms, and when Jaskier squints he can see tiny engravings winding around the points. Like snakes coiled around the blades. 

Kolgrim lets him look for only a short while before tucking them away again.

“I’ve picked up a contract in town,” he says, smoothing out his tunic as he speaks. When he looks at Jaskier, there’s a teasing shine in his eyes. Jaskier finds that he likes that look quite a lot. “If you have so much experience running with witchers, you should have no qualms about going with me.”

It’s startling to have him ask. Maybe Jaskier expected all witchers to be surly and distant like Geralt, or just to have adopted a dislike of the humans that shun them. But Kolgrim, outside a bit of discomfort and, honestly, a suggestion of peevishness, seems fairly pleasant. At least, he’s more welcoming than Geralt initially was.

Jaskier almost refuses. For some reason it feels like he’s betraying Geralt by trailing after another witcher. But then he thinks _why not?_ He’s traveled with all sorts of people and Geralt has only expressed displeasure when it sounds like Jaskier was acting like an idiot. There’s no reason he’d care about this. Except. It’s a witcher, and Jaskier isn’t sure what that means exactly but he feels like it means something.

Still, he returns Kolgrim’s smile and says, “Happy to.”

And they go. Kolgrim assures him it’s no big deal, just a few ghouls in the local cemetery, and Jaskier rattles off some things he knows about ghouls, asks Kolgrim if he hunts them the same way Geralt does. Kolgrim seems amused by his running commentary and plague of questions, but answers them all willingly and compliments Jaskier on the points he gets right.

They get to the cemetery just a little way outside of town. Kolgrim doesn’t tell Jaskier to stay behind or to be quiet. He opens the iron gate and gestures for Jaskier to go on ahead, and Jaskier does, surprised.

They hunker down and wait for the sun to droop, growing quieter as the cemetery darkens around them. Jaskier has a hard time in the silence, but he has sat like this with Geralt in the past with only a little trouble. He continues to whisper to Kolgrim, who doesn’t tell him to shut up and only occasionally gestures for him to speak softer. Somehow, it makes Jaskier miss Geralt’s company.

The night is chilly and only worsens as the sun sinks low, the fog of their breath mingling in the narrow space between them. Jaskier starts to shiver. Clenches his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. Eventually the ghouls wander out of their resting places.

Jaskier has seen ghouls several times before, but they never become less repugnant. Ugly, bloated bodies that carry a foul odor, bulging eyes and purplish skin. They look like the corpses they feed upon, but angry and growling. 

Kolgrim watches patiently, waits for them to trudge deeper into the cemetery, farther from the outer fencing. Maybe hoping to reduce the chances of any escaping and fleeing to the nearby town. Jaskier doesn’t get time to ask if he’s right. Kolgrim stands abruptly and is gone from Jaskier’s side before he fully realizes that the witcher has moved.

He fights very differently from Geralt. He’s fast, almost hard to keep track of. He uses both of his blades simultaneously, sweeping around and leaping like a dancer. Jaskier kneels behind a headstone and watches, enraptured.

He’s almost too involved in what is happening in front of him to worry about the crunching earth behind him. Almost. Years ago, this might have been his downfall. But he’s accompanied Geralt on enough contracts that he’s trained to always be at least somewhat aware of his surroundings. It’s not a rule he always obeys, but tonight he is fortunate enough to hear the approaching footsteps.

Jaskier whips around to find one of the ghouls trying to get friendly. The bard inhales sharply and rockets to his feet, scrabbling for his dagger. He goes to pull it from its sheath, but in his nervousness, angles it so that the hilt catches in his undershirt. He twists the blade around to keep the point from his stomach, groaning at his own clumsiness and then cursing when he only makes it worse, tangling the pommel and the shirt together.

The ghoul makes a horrible gurgling noise, spittle spraying from its wide mouth and landing on Jaskier, who recoils. He finally manages to get his dagger out, yelling with victory as he aims the point out towards the ghoul. The ghoul charges and Jaskier feels his body flush, his muscles tensing for the inevitable collision.

With a screech, the ghoul is cut short. Its head is sliced clean off. Kolgrim arches a brow at Jaskier’s dagger but doesn’t say anything before returning to the fray. Jaskier swallows past the lump in his throat and stumbles away from his would-be attacker.

His legs carry him to a family crypt. Jaskier can hear the continuing snap of the witcher’s blades, and he grabs at the door handle only to find it stuck. He should have guessed that. Feeling impatient, Jaskier turns his body to the side, angled so he can check that nothing is coming up behind him, and bangs his hip unkindly against the aged wood of the door. Once, twice, and then a great, dusty give. Jaskier tumbles through ungracefully, then collects himself and tucks into a corner where he’s confident the ghouls won’t see him.

He can still watch the fight from here, as long as Kolgrim keeps to a certain area.

There isn’t much more to see. Kolgrim cuts down the last few ghouls and wipes his blades off in the grass before sheathing them both. He wanders around and, in a familiar ritual, harvests what he can from the carcasses. Jaskier gets up rather shakily and then sits back down. No reason to rush himself. It’s not like Kolgrim needs his help with this part. 

Once he’s done, the witcher walks up to the crypt and laughs down at Jaskier. “Did you think I’d miss one?”

Jaskier arches a brow and stands, quickly wiping the dirt from his trousers. “Don’t get too cocky- you almost did.”

Kolgrim smiles brilliantly. He’s rumpled from the fight and handsome under the brackish blood. Jaskier _does_ know how to remove his armor. The bard has had enough practice that he can do it quickly and without really looking, if he so desires.

Kolgrim shrugs and says, “Fair enough.”

Jaskier steps closer so they’re nearly touching. “I won’t hold it against you,” he breathes, and then they’re kissing, rough and sloppy and very good. Kolgrim presses him to the wall and Jaskier’s hands start fumbling with his armor, finding it more difficult than he’d expected. All the buckles are in the wrong places, he thinks. And he’s never removed Geralt’s armor in a passion like this.

Kolgrim gets closer and closer and then a scream cracks across the night air.

They turn to see a couple. It’s immediately clear that they’d been passing through on their horses and caught sight of the gore. The scene looks like a massacre in the dark and probably won’t be much prettier in the daytime. Kolgrim watches them and sneers at their horror.

They don’t kiss again, but they walk back to town together with their shoulders bumping and duck into the tavern. Each of them gets a tankard that they take to a free table. Time passes easily with them sipping at their drinks and talking in low voices, watching the other patrons mill around from the corners of their eyes.

Kolgrim says he needs to hit the road and Jaskier answers, “Me too. In the morning.”

Kolgrim lingers. Jaskier thinks about asking him to stay for the night more plainly. He doesn’t. They both settle into the quiet for a bit, waiting, maybe, for the decision to be clear. Then Kolgrim grins, nods and says, “Good luck finding _your_ witcher.”

And he’s gone.

Later, when Jaskier is reunited with Geralt and they’re catching up over ale, Jaskier decides to tell him. There’s nothing to be done about it now and it will be worse if it gets to Geralt via witcher gossip or next winter when he goes to Kaer Morhen and it comes up or something. Not that it’s a bad story. Nothing happened. And even if it did, that should be fine, too.

So, Jaskier says, “Would you believe my luck; I ran into another witcher.” He tries to sound breezy, like this is just another anecdote.

Geralt puts his drink down. “Who?”

The air between them suddenly becomes unpleasantly charged. Jaskier decides not to tell him about the kiss- let that stay gossip, if it ever comes up at all.

Jaskier says, “I don’t think you know him. He wasn’t from your group.” Jaskier doesn’t know if that’s how witchers socialize but Geralt hasn’t told him, so.

Geralt arches a brow. Maybe he is surprised Jaskier could tell what group the man was from, which is insulting enough that instead of saying that Kolgrim told him, he says, “There was a snake on his amulet.”

Geralt asks, “Who was he? And where?”

Jaskier makes a noncommittal sound. “A bit south of here. He left though.”

Geralt purses his lips and blinks frustratedly. “Why don’t you want me to know who it was?”

Jaskier’s back straightens until he feels pulled tight as a bowstring. “Because you’re putting an odd amount of pressure on me and I feel like I shouldn’t say,” he grits out. His fingers are tapping on the tabletop, rolling up and down in a nervous pattern. Geralt watches this for some time in silence, and Jaskier can feel his breath even out, tension easing.

Softly, Geralt says, “It’s important to me.”

“Why?”

Geralt appears to struggle with the question for a moment. “Because there aren’t many of us left.”

Fair enough.

Feeling a little guilty, Jaskier nods and says, “His name was Kolgrim. He was nice. Do you know him?”

Geralt thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. “I know the name. But we haven’t met.”

“He was very nice.” Jaskier repeats, and it might be a bit too far in the wrong direction because now Geralt looks at him intently, his mouth pulled in a thin line. Angry line.

“Jaskier.”

“Yes?”

“Did you fuck the witcher?”

Jaskier opens his mouth, closes it. He wants to understand the expression Geralt is making before he answers, but can’t quite decide what he might wind up apologizing for. Because witchers are supposed to be dangerous? Because he was somehow overstepping? It doesn’t make sense. The longer it takes for Jaskier to answer the more agitated Geralt looks, and Jaskier thinks if he just waits long enough or if he lies and says, _of course I did, have you met me?_ Geralt will explode and tell him why he’s making that face.

But Jaskier isn’t a total arsehole, so he tells the truth. “I didn’t.” Geralt looks relieved and, ok, it pisses Jaskier off a little. He lets a mischievous smile pull across his face and says, “ _But_ …” and lets it linger between them.

Geralt’s jaw twitches. “But?”

“ _Well_ , it’s not all about fucking, Geralt. I have a vast repertoire of—”

“Stop.” His voice is strained. He’s upset and it doesn’t make sense because Geralt never cares about Jaskier having sex. Jaskier even said the man was nice so it shouldn’t matter. It has never mattered.

“Should I not have?” Jaskier asks. Geralt doesn’t answer straight away, so Jaskier rambles on. “Is there a rule about sleeping with witchers? Because if so, you’re going to have to tell me.”

“I don’t care who you fuck.”

Jaskier waits for him to ask more questions but the topic is dropped, Geralt taking a gulp of ale and starting in on his own story. They don’t talk about it again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kolgrim is a witcher from the games. You can eavesdrop on a conversation about him in White Orchard or find his remains in a crypt.


	20. Lettenhove

Jaskier is wrapping up a quick performance at their latest inn, avoiding more song requests and enthusiastic listeners with the excuse that he needs to rest his voice and the promise that they will hear him sing again if they return tomorrow, though he doesn’t actually know that they’ll be here that long. Once free, he twines his way through to the crowded bar and waves for the barmaid’s attention, which she gives with the dewy smile people get sometimes after hearing his more delicate ballads. He gets his drink and then turns back to the tables. It’s so busy that he has to stand on tiptoe to look over all the heads, searching for Geralt in the corner Jaskier left him in.

After a moment, Jaskier spots him still ducked over his food, face set into a grimace at all the shuffling people. The bard raises a hand in the air and waves it with a shout that catches Geralt’s attention and earns an eyeroll. Placing a hand over his drink in hopes of preventing it from spilling or splashing anyone, Jaskier starts to force his way in his friend’s direction. 

He doesn’t make it far before a man grabs his arm just below the elbow. His grip is light and fleeting, but the gesture still makes Jaskier jump. He turns to face the man, preparing to be met with a normal if tipsy townsperson. Sometimes people get a little grabby but oftentimes it’s just because of half-drunk enthusiasm and the desire to slur out a compliment before they let him go on his way.

The man is not a regular townsperson, however. He’s dressed in traveling clothes, heavy to keep out the cold but well-kept, and there’s a light satchel across his shoulders. A quick peek reveals that he’s carrying letters, tucked into nice envelopes and sealed with wax. A courier.

Jaskier glances over at Geralt, who has lowered his drink and is watching with idle interest.

The courier clears his throat. “You’re a difficult man to catch up to,” he says, managing to not sound peevish. There’s a steady respect in his gaze. The kind of respect granted to people with titles, not lowly bards. Jaskier feels his stomach sink.

“I hope the road treated you well,” Jaskier mumbles. His fingers tingle nervously and he feels them twitch, trying not to fidget too nervously but failing.

The courier smiles appreciatively, like Jaskier has done something particularly kind. The gratitude is unwelcome. “This,” he says, revealing a letter and handing it over, “is urgent.”

Jaskier takes the letter. He knows the wax seal well; a shield, resting diagonally in the center of a circle, as if it has been knocked over, resting back on the umbel of bishop’s lace, the white buds sticking out above the shield like the arches of a crown. He hands the courier a few coins and thanks him, stuffs the letter away and continues his trek to Geralt, rolling the tension off of his shoulders. He knows Geralt is going to ask.

Geralt looks at the pocket Jaskier shoved the letter into curiously. “Who’s requesting your presence, now?”

“Family,” Jaskier answers, and then takes a long gulp of his ale. “Keeping me abreast of current events.”

Later, in their room, Jaskier sits on his bed and cracks the seal. The handwriting is immediately familiar, and for a moment he rests in the confused space between reminiscence and dread. Imagined smells of the kitchen, of the laundry and the halls. His father’s cologne. The silence, the uneasiness.

Jaskier reads it quickly, that old anxiety buzzing through him without anywhere to go. The letter is summoning him home- a cousin’s firstborn is having a naming party and he’s expected to attend for some reason. Jaskier was not particularly close to this cousin, but they did meet up a few times back in his school days for drinks. And now they want Jaskier to perform, which seems…it seems like it is going to be strange. He’s surprised his father not only didn’t put an end to it but is actively trying to ensure that it happens.

Especially since his visits with his father generally involve mentions of duties and responsibility. The word viscount is frequently tossed around, as if it’s anything more than a title. His father doesn’t want to hear him sing, and Jaskier has watched him flinch at the sight of a lute in Jaskier’s hands. Jaskier has asked him what exactly he thought he was doing at Oxenfurt, and his father always just waves him off. And it’s worse now that he returns home with torn clothes and bruised skin and stories about Geralt of Rivia.

Jaskier rolls his eyes and drops the letter into the fire, not intending to attend the party even though he knows his father will be furious- maybe because of it, even.

Geralt watches him toss the letter with a raised brow. “Bad news?”

“No. My cousin had a baby. A little girl.”

Geralt continues to stare. “What else?”

“Just the one baby.”

Geralt doesn’t laugh at the admittedly dumb joke. “You’re not upset about the child.”

Why, of all times, Geralt is choosing now to ask after Jaskier’s feelings- when it’s inconvenient- is a mystery. Maybe he’s just wondering about where Jaskier came from, or about the family that he carefully avoids talking about. If Geralt hadn’t seen him with the courier, Jaskier wouldn’t have told him about it at all.

“I’m not. It’s just…you know I don’t get along with my family. So. That’s all.” Looking at Geralt’s face he realizes that he might not have ever explicitly said that he doesn’t get along with his family. He might have made some barbed comments over the years but he _did_ visit, though very, very rarely, and Jaskier has gone to great lengths to not talk about them outside of that one time in a field, after Geralt himself had shared a bit of his past. It helps that Geralt doesn’t pry.

Except for now. “Why?”

He studies Geralt for a long moment, wondering if he can get away with shrugging the whole conversation off. Probably. They’ve been running around with each other for years, now, and Geralt has always seemed mostly uninterested in where Jaskier came from. Whether that is out of respect or genuine disinterest is hard to say. More likely, he knows that asking questions invites more in return, and he has a hard-enough time dodging Jaskier’s nosiness on a normal day.

But now, Geralt is watching him intently. One of his brows is arched curiously, and he’s sitting with his hands rested on his knees, not even busying himself with the removal of his boots or sharpening his swords. Jaskier isn’t sure how to navigate Geralt’s sudden inquisitiveness. If it were anyone else, Jaskier would simply work his way around the situation with such wordiness and careful footwork that the questioner would wind up on the other end unsure what the original thought had been. Geralt is different, though. Jaskier doesn’t want to discourage him. And there’s a silly little area of his heart that wants Geralt to know him down to the core, in the same way Jaskier wants to know and understand him.

Of course, he can’t say everything. There are bruises he’s not willing to press, and stitches that still need time to heal before he risks tugging at them.

Jaskier fidgets. Then refocuses his attention to the callouses on his left hand, studying them carefully as if they’re something he needs to take stock of. When he speaks, he tries to keep his voice relaxed, but it comes out stiff, like heavy, exhausted footsteps.

“My father’s first wife- my brother’s mother- died and his second wife- my mother- disappeared.” He pauses to glance up at Geralt, whose eyes have dropped to the middle distance as he absorbs this. Jaskier quickly looks away. “By disappeared, I mean flew the coop. Ran away. And I was sent to temple school pretty young. So, we weren’t particularly close.”

It sounds small, knowing about Geralt’s childhood, and he tries very hard not to linger.

Geralt nods, clearly not knowing what to say. Jaskier decides to free them both from the discomfort of uncertainty, stretches and says, “Well, I won’t be hearing from him again for some time. Silver lining.”

“Hmm.” Geralt’s attention has already wandered elsewhere. It’s a relief.

“Time for bed, I think. Mind if I put out the light?”

The topic doesn’t come up again for nearly a month.

They’re between towns and Geralt has left Jaskier to tend the fire while he goes to catch dinner. Jaskier is strumming his lute when someone, silent as death, grabs him up from where he’s sitting. The lute is wrenched out of his hands and before he can scream for Geralt a hand slams over his mouth. He struggles hard but the person twists his arm back hard enough that Jaskier groans and goes immediately still.

Fucking bandits. Geralt is going to lose his mind over this. At least he took his swords with him, or else Jaskier would have to try to protect them and he’s somewhat capable but not a fucking swashbuckler, thanks.

“Calm, Julian,” the woman holding him mutters. The other two aren’t searching the camp, but watching the trees. Looking out for Geralt. So, this isn’t a robbery. It’s about Jaskier. Bandits, apparently, are always about Jaskier. Or, in this case, Julian. He groans again, this time with exasperation instead of pain.

The hand doesn’t lift from his mouth- smart. The woman says, voice even and low, “I’ve been sent by your father.” Jaskier closes his eyes, frustration prickling in his chest. “Your old man was concerned after not hearing back from you.”

Jaskier doesn’t think _concerned_ is the right word, but he doesn’t have the option to vocalize that. He wriggles a little in the woman’s grip, but the hold only tightens with an impatient huff. “Hush,” she grumbles.

If Jaskier were standing, he would kick back at the woman. But he was caught sitting and tangled up in her firm hold before he could brace himself, and now he’s stuck like a bear in a trap.

The woman shifts around, securing herself. “Cut that out. We’re not staying long,” she says to the others, who have progressed to shifting around in Jaskier and Geralt’s things. Then she refocuses on Jaskier. “We’re meant to ensure that your father hears from you. He also advised that we take a hostage.”

The man who took Jaskier’s lute waves it and Jaskier’s chest tightens. Damn.

Then, Jaskier is yanked to his feet and pulled backwards. He nearly stumbles over the fallen tree he had been sitting on, but the woman holding him just firms her grip and pulls Jaskier briefly off his feet and lugs him bodily over it. 

Jaskier renews his struggles but he is simply tugged back to a tree and tied to it, and then a hanky is shoved into his mouth, and a longer rag tied over it and around to the back of his head. They kindly put the lute in its case and leave.

Jaskier sits there for about an hour, watching the fire and wishing that Roach had made a fuss during that confrontation to potentially alert Geralt.

When Geralt shows up with two dead rabbits, he sees Jaskier and immediately tenses into readiness. Jaskier just sighs through his nose and shakes his head, tries to wave off Geralt’s concern but doesn’t quite manage it with the extremely limited mobility. Geralt drops the rabbits then paces the camp until he decides the danger is gone, then hurries over to Jaskier.

He frees his mouth first and Jaskier spits on the ground. Jaskier explains what happened, Geralt’s expression moving from concern to surprise to anger.

Geralt glares at him, snaps, “Is this the only way anyone can get ahold of you?”

“I’m very approachable. You know this.” Jaskier puffs up his chest, though the effect is lessened by his simultaneous handwaving to work out the pins and needles.

“Why are you always getting kidnapped, then?”

“This isn’t kidnapping, it’s extortion. Or blackmail.”

Jaskier walks over to his bags and quickly picks through them, relieved to find that nothing else was taken. Geralt does the same with his things. Jaskier feels twitchy without even the option to distract himself with his lute.

Once his belongings are catalogued, Geralt looks over at Jaskier’s fidgeting hands and asks, “What are you going to do?”

Jaskier shrugs, “I have to go.”

Geralt grits his teeth and then stomps over to the rabbits and starts skinning them with a touch more ferocity than usual. Jaskier wonders if Geralt is really this angry that Jaskier is diverting their route, even though their route is pretty vague in the first place. They don’t have any nailed down plans, as far as he knows.

Still. “You don’t have to go with me.”

Geralt pauses his work and shoots Jaskier a look. “I’m going.”

Jaskier imagines Geralt in his childhood home. Lettenhove. Geralt sitting across from his father and talking. Jaskier is suddenly nauseous and desperate for that to not happen. He doesn’t want Geralt to know how he grew up. What he comes from.

“There’s no need, really. My family drama will only annoy you, I promise,” He says, trying on a bright smile. Geralt looks unconvinced.

“I’m going,” he repeats, sternly. Jaskier clenches his jaw.

Geralt puts the rabbits over the fire, apparently signaling that the conversation is over. Jaskier clenches his jaw, shuffles his feet in the dirt. He can’t get the idea of Geralt sniffing around Lettenhove out of his head and it makes his body feel unpleasantly fluttery.

“No, Geralt. Really,” he croaks, cursing his voice for its betrayal. 

Geralt doesn’t bother to look up from his cooking. “Yes, Jaskier. Really.”

They set off in the morning, Jaskier feeling horrible the whole way.

In life, when things get really awful, Jaskier has always thought about his family. It’s possible he’s remembering home harshly, that he’s suppressed the good times in order to justify staying away, and his own misery growing up there. Surely, he hadn’t always been unhappy. He thinks about when the weather was nice and he could sit in the large garden, about fresh and well-cooked food, constant company, fine clothes and a soft bed.

He thinks about the quiet, about sitting straight with his hands in his lap and doing his best not to make a noise because _Quiet, Julian._ And he thinks about never really being known, hardly being seen, about hard looks and distant hands and waiting, waiting, waiting and obligations that sat like hard stones in his stomach. Dreading his own life, waking up every morning and wanting to open his mouth and—

Sometimes it makes him feel better: at least he doesn’t have to be Julian anymore. He’s not sure how to map out this new space where he’ll have to be Julian and Jaskier simultaneously.

Jaskier realizes an actually very large detail that stops him short. “Shit!”

Geralt jolts to a stop, alarmed. “What?”

“Geralt, you have to know something. About me. It’s going to seem…well, I don’t want you to be upset about it.” If anything, Geralt looks more concerned. Jaskier can’t imagine what he thinks he’s about to say, but he hopes it’s awful enough to soften the truth. Jaskier opens his mouth. Closes it. Stares for a long time.

Geralt, voice rough, spits, “Out with it, Jaskier!”

Jaskier points, waves his hand around. Geralt’s eyes track the moving finger until he looks like he might bite it off. “ _That_! Jaskier. They’re not going to call me Jaskier.”

Geralt blinks. “Why?”

“Why? Hmm.” The obvious answer would be that Jaskier isn’t his name, but it is. It’s more his name than anything else at this point, and it’s the name that he chose, and the name that feels good and right. So, it’s his name.

Losing patience, Geralt hollers, “For fuck’s sake!”

“Jaskier is not my original name,” Jaskier finally says. Geralt stares. And stares.

Then, “It’s not your name?” His voice is tight and he has an uncertain expression, like he’s measuring Jaskier up. Like he is reforming what the bard looks like in his mind, piecing him together. It feels like ants on Jaskier’s skin. He doesn’t want to be reformed.

“It _is_ my name. They just call me by my original name. Because…because it’s how they know me and I don’t _hate_ my other name so I haven’t corrected them. I don’t know, Geralt, it’s complicated.”

Geralt closes his eyes, tilts his chin up like he’s consulting with a higher power. “Why do you have two names?”

There are many answers to that but instead of something like _I wanted to be anyone else_ Jaskier settles for, “Because that’s what bards do. Some bards. I’m not the only bard you’ve met.” Jaskier also carefully doesn’t make his point by calling Geralt “Sir Haute-Bellegarde.”

Geralt considers this. “What do they call you?”

Jaskier inhales. This feels like standing before a precipice. He doesn’t want to jump. “Julian. Julian Alfred Pankratz.” Geralt stares at him and Jaskier can tell he’s trying to make the name fit. It isn’t going to work.

“Julian,” Geralt says slowly, feeling it out. Jaskier shakes his head.

“No. You just call me Jaskier. Alright?” Geralt almost looks relieved and nods.

They continue their journey, moving from lengths of forest placed between towns to long fields of farmland and deep-set cottages. They pass the little homes as they walk the single road. People wander in and out, working through their gardens and fields, managing livestock and setting their children loose to play or do their chores. Some of them look up curiously, furling their brows at the outsiders. A few of them pop up, mouths dropping open when they recognize one or both of them, though blessedly none call out. Others only observe that they’re there and then return to their own business, keeping to themselves. Geralt looks around curiously as they go, as if each row of wheat is going to bring answers.

Then, for some time, there are no more houses. The same road splits a field of tall, slowly yellowing grain, which shudders and creeps at them as a gentle breeze rolls through. Abruptly, the crop ends, splitting off into a wide yard of neatly-trimmed grass.

There’s an archway made of worn brown stone that expands into a gate and winds around the property, both ends meeting and joining with the body of the estate, as if the house has reached out its arms to contain its possessions. The outer wall is trimmed with ivy, which even somehow manages to look neat, like someone had settled it into the grooves with a purpose in mind, and organized it just so. Looking in, the main house is large and settled into the corner of the surrounding stone wall, cattycorner to a large barn and a smaller shed. Behind the house, tucked away out of view, is the garden.

They stand there for some time just staring. Looking at Lettenhove. Jaskier glares at the walls and feels himself start to sink, as if his body remembers years of muted chaos and is trying to tuck back into it. He licks his lips and looks nervously at Geralt, who sniffs the air lightly but looks largely unmoved. To him, it is just a house. Just bricks and mortar, just a yard, just people.

“Get down,” Jaskier says, his voice unnaturally breathy. Geralt looks at him, but doesn’t argue. He hops down and guides Roach the rest of the way by her reins.

As they approach the entrance, Jaskier forces his hands still and straightens his spine. There are no guards here and the gate is pulled open. The long dirt path leads straight to the home’s front door, circling around to the back garden and then branching away to the distant barn and stables. As they walk, the sound of clucking chickens and shuffling animals grows, and Jaskier can hear workers bustling around through the windows. It always surprises him that there’s life here. In his memories, the home is always just silent.

Jaskier hesitates at the door. Geralt is standing just behind him, looking a little out of place with a large horse in tow and pitch-dark armor. Jaskier starts to say that maybe they should run to the stables first to get Roach settled, but stops short when the door opens behind him. He turns to look.

“Julian?” the woman says, her eyes squinting against sunlight.

Jaskier wipes the sweat off his hands, then smiles broadly. Swoops his arms open for a hug. “Hello, Danica! Yes, I’ve returned! Surely you knew I was coming?” He dives forward and pulls her into a hug, and the woman groans and swats at him until he releases her.

Danica is the head housekeeper, and has been as far back as Jaskier can remember. She is grouchy and pedantic and used to wipe him down whenever he returned to the castle after playing outside. Never had a nice thing to say to him or his brother. She also used to sneak him sweets when he was being punished. The kind of confusing person everyone needs in their life.

“Mairead!” she calls out, and a moment later the stable girl dashes around the corner.

She is a few years older than when Jaskier last saw her, and he is surprised to see that she has grown her honey-colored hair out past her shoulders. She wipes her hands off on her trousers, eyes sticking to Geralt for a moment before turning to Jaskier. She furrows her brow. Maybe she’s trying to figure out why he bothers coming back. Fair question. 

Danica gestures at Geralt. “Get his horse,” she says. Mairead glances uneasily at Geralt, but hastens forward, arm extended for the reins. Geralt only shillyshallies for a moment before handing them over. Jaskier can see him restrain from using his usual intimidation.

Danica smiles at him tightly, then turns her back and shuffles into the house with a clipped, “Come on, then.”

Geralt looks between each person they encounter and Jaskier. He’s waiting for the warm welcome, of course. Jaskier just smiles at Geralt and does his best to seem cheerful, or at least unaffected. 

Little has changed about the house. It has always been filled with old things that were passed down through the generations, things that clumsy children’s hands mustn’t touch. The walls are cool stone, and the floor hard wood that creaks under each step. As a child, Jaskier would listen intently for that sound, using it as a warning that someone was coming to check on him. 

They are ushered to a sitting room and handed drinks in fragile glasses. Geralt slides onto a hardbacked stair, sniffing the contents of his glass before taking a heavy drink. He seems pleased with the results and takes a milder sip. It’s so strange to see Geralt sit in his childhood home that it almost makes Jaskier dizzy. Geralt is looking all around, probably trying to find Jaskier in the empty spaces. Or maybe he just feels out of place.

Jaskier’s father doesn’t hurry to greet them. They wait in the sitting room long enough that Jaskier starts bouncing his legs and Geralt looks like he might excuse himself to hide away with Roach and Mairead in the stables. It probably wouldn’t be a bad idea.

Before Jaskier can suggest it, however, there’s the sound of clipped footsteps and his father’s even voice.

Jaskier tilts his head to watch his father sweep into the room. He looks healthy, the same stern posture and sturdy physique that Jaskier has always known. His hair is more gray than brown now, but it hasn’t thinned out or receded. He’s wearing a light, silk tunic that breezes as he walks.

“Julian. You kept me waiting.” His tone is thick with meaning, and Jaskier can only nod. His father is always teaching lessons this way; an eye for an eye, carefully placed examples of why Jaskier should feel guilty or ashamed. He’s only late because Jaskier is late.

Jaskier’s father’s face is smooth and blank as stone, but a studied eye can make out some surprise upon seeing that a witcher is in attendance. It’s clear enough to Jaskier that he isn’t particularly happy about it. He arches a brow at Jaskier. “Introduce us.”

Geralt doesn’t give him time. He rises to his feet and faces Jaskier’s father, more polite than Jaskier would have expected. “Geralt of Rivia.”

Jaskier’s father nods. Extends his hand. “Henryk Alexander Pankratz. My son has spoken of you. In detail.”

Geralt hums and takes the hand briefly, then retracts. Jaskier can tell he’s sizing Henryk up, trying to read him. Jaskier could tell him it won’t make any difference what he finds there, that the other man will be perfectly civil to him. That Geralt is really just an ornament in the room, to him.

Jaskier doesn’t get to his feet until his father says, voice hard, “Julian. Up.” And Jaskier does get up. He can’t look at Geralt when he does it, just nods at his father, allowing the man to assess him. Henryk is clearly not pleased.

They all take their seats, Jaskier and Geralt beside each other and Henryk opposite them, like they’re taking his counsel.

The silence is stifling, and Jaskier has to restrain himself from undoing the high buttons of his doublet so he can breathe easier. He slides his eyes around the room and asks, “Where’s Roark?”

Henryk tips his head. “Away on a trip. I’m sure he wrote you about it. You must have forgotten.”

“Must have,” Jaskier whispers, picking at the arm of his chair before swiftly changing topics. “I hope my lute made it safely.”

“Don’t fidget,” his father chides, and Jaskier stops his hand. Lays it flat. “Your instrument is tucked away in good condition. It will be returned to you, of course, if you want it.”

“Interesting tactic, sending strangers to harass your son,” Jaskier grits out, heat spreading across his face. 

Henryk arches a brow. “What am I supposed to do when my adult son acts like a child? I’m aware you received my invitation and ignored it.”

Jaskier shakes his head. “What if things had gotten out of hand and I’d been hurt?”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Julian.” Henryk snorts, sparing a glance at Geralt as if the witcher will find Jaskier’s antics just as amusing as he does. Geralt’s expression remains flat, and Henryk refocuses on his son. “I hired professionals, not thugs.”

Anger hitches in Jaskier’s chest and he leans forward. “I know it’s hard to think outside your ivory tower, father, but things don’t always happen based on design.”

“I am fully aware of that,” Henryk says sharply. Jaskier purses his lips, ingrained behaviors cropping up after years of distance. A satisfied expression flickers briefly across Henryk’s face before he snuffs it. 

Geralt shifts in his chair, catching both of their attention. For a moment, Jaskier thinks his friend must be uncomfortable, but when he looks over, he sees that Geralt’s expression has darkened since they first sat down. His amber eyes are set on Jaskier, almost impatient for something. Expectant. When he doesn’t find what he’s looking for, he turns his frustrated focus on Henryk, who manages to not flinch under the glare.

Geralt’s hand tightens briefly into a fist, and Jaskier feels his heartbeat quicken for a confused moment. Then his hand relaxes again and he speaks, directing the words at Henryk. “It was unwise. If I had heard their approach, your employees would have been injured. Severely.” 

Henryk works his jaw and frowns at Jaskier. “You’re worried that I would have gotten you hurt? What happens if your _adventures_ get you killed? Will _he_ be carrying your body home? Or should I even bother hoping my son will be anything greater than carrion for birds?”

It strikes a nerve. His father’s words drop heavily in Jaskier’s stomach, and he has to swallow around a surge of emotion. Beside him, Geralt’s hand tightens around his drink, grip enough to make the glass crack.

Jaskier crosses his arms over his chest, trying to hide how shaky his hands are. “If you’re so shamed by my life, why do you want me to perform at this event?”

Henryk huffs. “I don’t.”

A moment passes.

“You don’t?”

“Of course not, Julian.” Worn exasperation slips into his father’s tone, and Jaskier watches him run his hands over his eyes. It reminds him of when he was young, repeating the same mistake over and over as his father’s patience gradually burned out. “It’s the only way I could get you home.”

Understanding flushes over Jaskier like ice water, and his whole body stills for a long moment. Then, a familiar burning blooms in his chest. His voice is ragged when he swears. “Oh. For fuck’s sake. Really?”

Henryk leans forward, eyes almost feverish with determination. “It’s time, Julian. You’ve done your running, had your fun. It’s time to stop dodging your responsibilities and return home. Start taking your role seriously.”

Jaskier sneers. “I don’t have a role here.”

“You do.” Henryk’s voice drops low, now. Dangerous. It makes Jaskier’s nerves surge, and his heartbeat picks up. Geralt twitches. “Years of running away doesn’t change the fact that you’re meant to be the viscount, and the viscount has duties that you must fulfill.”

Jaskier waves a flippant hand and says, “I abjure it.”

In the stunned silence, he jumps to his feet and twists around, not sparing his father another glance before he sets across the hall. After a moment, he is rushing up the stairs, aiming for the guest room. Geralt follows him, as does Henryk, who stomps all the way to the first step, shouting up at Jaskier. He blocks it out, counting doors until he finds the right one. The door bangs the opposite wall with the force Jaskier uses to open it, and Geralt doesn’t argue when he directs him into the room and slams the door shut behind them.

They’re both quiet. Jaskier drops down onto the end of the bed and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes until he sees flashes of red. As he tries to collect himself, Geralt remains standing by the door.

“Is this your room?” Geralt asks. It’s rare that the other man is the one to break long stretches of silence, especially with random comments. It almost makes Jaskier jump.

Instead he sighs and looks up, not bothering to hide that he’s blinking away unshed tears. Geralt is scanning the room, his brow furrowed. It’s simple, made up and rarely used. Everything has a specific purpose, no frivolities or fun to be seen. Geralt isn’t going to find hints of a young Jaskier here.

“No,” Jaskier answers flatly. “I don’t have a room anymore.”

Geralt nods. “I see.”

Some time passes before Jaskier says, “I’m sorry you got dragged into this.”

And then he starts to cry like the child his father accuses him of behaving like. Geralt stands very still, then crosses the room and sits beside Jaskier, setting a hand on his back and anchoring him until Jaskier lies back on the bed with a heavy sigh and a sniff.

“I’m surprised,” Geralt murmurs. Jaskier ticks his head to look up at him.

“About which part?”

Hesitation. “You cry very quietly.”

Jaskier laughs, doesn’t say that’s how he learned to cry: conveniently. “I do.”

They lie back on the bed and Jaskier closes his eyes. When he opens them, he must have fallen asleep because it’s much darker. Geralt is sitting up again, staring over his shoulder at Jaskier.

He says, “Let’s find your lute and leave.”

Jaskier nods and sits up. They sneak out of the room, listening and then starting their hunt. Geralt finds it, of course, tucked in the corner of the library between stacks. And then they leave.

Before they go, though, Jaskier says, “This place isn’t all bad,” and takes him back to the garden, which is still beautiful after all these years. Geralt nods and looks at Jaskier meaningfully. Jaskier waits for him to say something to match that look, but he just stares at him and stays quiet until Jaskier nods and says, “Let’s go, then.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You wouldn't believe how often I go to write 'Lettenhove' and start typing 'Lallybrock' by mistake....


	21. Poison

Jaskier is trailing behind Geralt and Roach, working through a chord progression on his lute and murmuring lyrics under his breath, piecing together a song from their latest contract. He’s struggling to come up with a suitable rhyme for wraith, or else a way to reorganize the words without completely throwing away his progress, and Geralt has been no help, simply shrugging his shoulders when Jaskier asks for his thoughts, and mumbling a disinterested, “You’re the poet.”

He finally settles on calling it a spectral being, instead, when Geralt brings them to a stop. Jaskier pauses his playing and gives him a questioning look, listening for the skittering of a creature or approaching hoof clops. 

Geralt shakes his head and gestures to the trees. “Have to piss,” he grumbles, and then steps just off the road, in clear sight, and starts undoing his laces.

Jaskier snorts and resettles his lute into its case, which he carefully attaches to Roach’s saddlebags. Roach snorts at him, and he runs his hands over her neck, murmuring about her barbaric rider. While Roach nibbles around his pockets in search of treats, Jaskier’s eye wanders to the opposite side of the road. They snag on a crooked plank of wood, shoved down into the earth. It’s thin and almost gray, marred with scratches and stuck with an arrow. It takes him a moment to process that he’s looking at a roadside grave marker. Jaskier stills his hands, the wooden cross absorbing all of his attention. He can tell from here that there are words etched into the wood, but not what they say.

“Did you see this, Geralt?” He asks, easing away from Roach, who doesn’t bother to follow him. Geralt responds with a noncommittal grunt, but Jaskier can hear that he’s shifting around, probably engrossed in redoing his trousers.

Jaskier steps up to the wooden cross and traces his fingers along it, briefly taking hold of the arrow to see if he can pull it out. Unfortunately, it’s embedded too snugly and he lowers his hand. The engraved words are faded and worn down with time and weather, but it’s clearly a name. He squints and leans in closer. Might be Juna Vidgalbo, or something entirely different. Sad when your own memorial can’t remember your name, he thinks. 

Jaskier hums dolefully, says “Can’t imagine the story that goes with this is very— _argh_!”

Pain shoots up the back of Jaskier’s left calf with a great force and he drops to his knee, gripping the pantleg hard. For a moment, he thinks that he’s been hit by an arrow, someone unhappy that he tried to remove the one planted in the grave marker. When he looks, however, he finds that there’s a tear in his trouser leg but no obvious weapon. His leg continues to pulse, the skin feeling pinched and warm. He yanks up his trousers to find the area blasted with little spots of blood that seem to bloom from a spray of holes. The red beads slowly ooze and pool together, then run down his pale skin.

Jaskier groans, feeling lightheaded, his mind bubbling around his skull and snapping, and drops the leg of his trousers back over the speckled wound. He presses his hands flat to the ground in an effort to steady himself, bewilderedly watching deep red grow and stain on his calf, and then slowly pushes until he is wobbling but upright.

Geralt is looking at him oddly, back in his breeches and frowning from the other side of the road, hands feeble at his sides. “Did you trip?” he asks, and Jaskier would laugh if he didn’t feel like a feverish pincushion

“No,” he answers breathily, “something _stuck_ me!”

Geralt raises a brow. “You’re screaming over a splinter?” He looks unconvinced but wary, eyes darting over Jaskier then to the wooden monument behind him.

Jaskier’s face turns hot and he waves his arms out, as if presenting his own condition. “No! Something stuck me in the leg. Look.” Jaskier shifts around and raises his trouser leg again so Geralt can see, grimacing at how the fabric sticks to his skin. Jaskier nearly loses his balance, wavering as barely controlled nausea rises in his throat. 

Geralt’s frown deepens and he crosses the distance between them, then kneels. He takes Jaskier’s ankle with surprising care and turns his leg just slightly out to get a better look. Jaskier tries to stand still, but he’s starting to feel very hot, and the pressure seems to shift and pop around his ears until Geralt’s mumbling sounds sort of echoey.

“You’re right.” Geralt looks around unhappily, probably searching around for the culprit. “It doesn’t look bad, I just don’t know what could have—” He stops talking when Jaskier grabs into his shoulders, clutching hard for support. His eyes rise to take in the bard’s appearance. “Jaskier?”

“Ouch,” Jaskier says, and then he can’t support himself anymore. Body heavy and suddenly unmanageable, Jaskier slumps down. Geralt grabs at his hips to keep him from folding over on top of him, though his odd angle only allows Geralt to slow the fall.

For a moment, Jaskier hangs on Geralt’s shoulder like a cloak, but then slides so he is sitting haphazardly on his lap. Geralt makes a confused noise and shifts Jaskier back until he lands in the grass, one ankle still gripped in the witcher’s hand and the other leg splayed to the side, bracketing Geralt in with his feet. Jaskier’s knees are bent so they’re sitting close, Geralt basically knelt between his legs.

Jaskier groans and brings his hands up to his sweat-damp hair. His ankle is lifted onto Geralt’s lap so he can continue his inspection of the small cuts. He smears away some of the blood and then lightly palpates the skin. Jaskier hisses at the sharp pain and grabs at Geralt’s wrist to try to stop him, though Geralt swats him away easily.

A whimper escapes Jaskier’s lips, and he throws his head back into the grass, staring up at the sky. So blue it’s almost blinding. He has to blink hard, and tears roll out over his temples. A heaviness sits at the base of his skull like the last dregs of ale, and his sudden shift sends it up in a dizzying wave. Jaskier murmurs nonsense, reaching out again with a trembling hand and trying to sit back up.

Geralt growls out, “Quiet, Jaskier.”

But sitting there in some sort of delirium, swinging at the end of his tether, Jaskier hears _Quiet, Julian_ and nearly screams. He slouches back, his pulse ratcheting up. All he can say is, “No!” There’s enough force in the word that his whole body jolts, and Geralt’s grip momentarily tightens on his ankle. 

Geralt blinks, apparently not expecting any sort of outburst, and certainly not a response snappier than what Jaskier normally shoots back when Geralt growls out the same command almost daily.

Hesitation, then Geralt says, “Jaskier.” His tone has dropped from dangerous to careful.

It’s horrible. It’s absolutely unbearable. Jaskier snaps his hands up to cover his eyes and lets out a groan, whispers, “I can’t, alright, I can’t!” He sounds pitiful, and humiliation sticks in his chest.

His father frowns at him with disapproval and says, “Mind yourself, Julian.” And when Julian shifts in his seat, trying to be silent and still and do what he is told but unable to stop, he turns again and says, “ _Now_.”

“Sorry!” he wails, when the hands grab at his wrists and try to pry them down.

“Dammit!” The hands snap Jaskier with some force, giving him a hard shake that flings his head roughly on his neck. Jaskier blinks and blushes because that’s definitely Geralt. He’s dreaming, or losing his mind, spilled out on the hardpacked road and across the pillowing grass.

Geralt stands, dragging Jaskier up with him. Jaskier rolls his head and leans against Geralt, legs quavering like jelly. He says “Sorry, I got confused,” because thinking your friend is your father is strange and, in his case, insulting.

Geralt grumbles, “You’re poisoned.” Jaskier’s heart rattles at the thought and Geralt inhales sharply before hastening to say, “Calm down.” Like that’s possible.

Geralt directs Jaskier to Roach, lifting him up by the waist so his feet dangle when he realizes that the bard isn’t going to make the short walk on his own. Jaskier complains about the arm digging into his ribs, and Geralt adjusts his hold and starts hobbling towards the horse.

They’re finally making progress when something rises in the grass. Jaskier looks over and for a second he thinks it _is_ the grass though it’s hard to trust himself when he is drooling a little and his neck feels like sap. He manages to lift his hand and point but not to say _what the ever-loving fuck is that._ Whatever slurred mumble he does spit out gets Geralt to look up.

He turns his head to see what Jaskier is pointing at, and then his shoulders draw into a tense line. “Fuck. Echinops.”

Jaskier expects Geralt to prop him against something or just upend him onto the ground so he can go dispatch the little fucker. Instead, he shifts down to hook an arm under Jaskier’s knees, then sweeps him up. Jaskier groans at the abrupt level change, his vision twinkling into black spots. Movement, like swaying in a hammock. He closes his eyes and lets it sweep him up, uncertainty ebbing away and leaving a blur behind.

Jaskier is pushed up, one hand on his back to keep him steady and adjust his legs to either side of the saddle. Once he’s secure, the hands vanish and leave him leaning forward, his nose pressing into rough horse hair. Then, Geralt hefts himself up and slides onto the saddle behind Jaskier, reaching around and bracketing him in.

Half asleep, Jaskier chases the blur deeper down into pleasant darkness, until the discomfort is all but gone. He runs across the fields outside Lettenhove, his older brother chasing behind him with a stick. They both laugh hysterically because Roark has yelled something _completely_ ridiculous. It’s an old game; they pretend that Julian is a werewolf and Roark is going to run him through with a silver sword, which is fun up until Roark catches him and _does_ hit him squarely and decisively with the stick.

The arm around his waist tugs and Julian jumps because Roark caught him, so he grabs and pulls at the arm, yelling in fear and delight. Geralt whispers, “Be still!” in his ear and pulls him in tighter. It’s for the best because the rational part of his brain knows he doesn’t want to fall off of Roach and his calf is absolutely _burning_. Roark learned from a dockworker about this maneuver where you hook someone’s leg with your own and they go down like a tree, and now he is always trying to trip Julian even though it’s _not fair_ because Julian doesn’t know how to do it and if you’re going to hit someone with a stick you need to be fair about it.

Jaskier throws his elbow back and hits Geralt, who exhales loudly but doesn’t grunt or buckle the way he’s supposed to. Roach snorts and shifts around because she’s very patient but she won’t let them wrestle astride her. Geralt says, “Fuck,” and readjusts so it’s harder for Jaskier to reach back.

Julian chuckles. “Nanny’ll wash yer mouth ‘ih soap, _bitch_ ,” and then the arm around him is a solid bar and he slouches with a garbled, “Sorry.”

And then he’s out like a light.

The first time Jaskier wakes up, something is being poured into his mouth, earthy and warm as it slides down, his throat working unbidden. He feebly reaches for the bottle, looking for whatever confused control he can, but something wraps around his wrist and pins it down.

Pain. There’s a horrible pulling at his calf, like two prongs digging into the muscle, followed by a sick stretch. He blinks his eyes open, wrenching himself up onto elbows and glaring down to find his foot is in a woman’s lap. She sticks something into the little cuts and drags out what seems to be rather large thorns, her tongue caught between teeth as she focuses.

Jaskier chokes on whatever he’s drinking and a large, familiar hand slams down over his mouth, freeing his wrist so he can flutter up his hand and strike out. It thuds uselessly against flesh, and Jaskier turns his head to see his target, only to be met with the flared, amber eyes of a witcher. Geralt. A low, wet gurgle as Jaskier tries to cough. Geralt is pressed so close that Jaskier feels hot breath on his ear when he growls, “Don’t spit it out, Jaskier.”

And Jaskier doesn’t know if he manages that because purple dots crowd out his vision and he feels himself tilt back, elbows collapsing under his suddenly mountainous weight, and passes out again.

Next time he wakes up it’s with a groan, his dry throat clicking and catching around the effort, expanding the noise into a weak cough. A quick scan of the room reveals that Geralt is gone, but there’s a rather sweaty woman there. The one who had been poking around his leg. The muscle in his calf jumps weakly, as if recalling the feeling. But now the pain is replaced by a tingling, numb sensation, and he has to look to make sure the leg is still whole.

Drowsy but no longer spinning, Jaskier takes a moment to look the woman over. Her hair, manipulated in a scattered and messy braid, is dark and lined with silver streaks that don’t match her apparently youthful face. Crooked teeth, one missing on the bottom row. And her dimpled cheeks are thickly covered in freckles, barely a lick of skin untouched by spots. Her eyes are bright, almost inhumanly blue, and set on him with unabashed amusement.

She rattles a handful of thorns in front of him rather too delightedly. He can’t work up the energy to be frightened by how incredibly odd this is so he just stares at her wonderingly, his tacky lips sticking when he opens his mouth.

Her voice is smoother than he expected, high-pitched and songlike. “You had seven of these little fuckers in your leg. Seven! And you didn’t want to let them go.” She chuckles, shimmies the thorns again. “I got them of course.”

Jaskier licks his lips, finds that it doesn’t help. “Where’s Geralt?” A few of the syllables get lost in his croaky voice and he snaps his mouth shut.

The woman seems to understand well enough and says, “Big lummox is pacing around the garden. Eat this.”

The thorns are tossed aside and the woman hands over a bowl of broth. Jaskier takes the bowl with weak hands and stares at it for an impolite length of time before taking a cautious sip. It’s weirdly bitter and has a floral scent that makes him suspect it is more medicinal than regular broth, but it’s fine enough that he drinks it down, relieving the cottony dryness. The woman hums, apparently satisfied with her concoction, and reaches to take the bowl back from him with a promise of more to come.

The door clicks open and Geralt peeks his head in. There’s a harried look about him, but Jaskier offers a smile as he moves across the room. The woman arches a brow and makes an _uh-oh_ face at Jaskier before getting up and hurrying away. He traces her path across the room and sees that she’s ladling the broth from a great, copper cauldron tucked into the fireplace. Maybe he shouldn’t have drank it so readily.

Geralt takes her seat wordlessly, resting his hands over his lap and taking in Jaskier’s condition. Jaskier can only think to say, “I called you a bitch,” pleased that his voice is already improving. Geralt nods. He looks so solemn about it that Jaskier can’t help but laugh.

“Don’t!” Geralt snaps with a show of teeth, and Jaskier’s laughter drops out immediately, a hot, anxious feeling in his stomach. They sit in tense silence while the woman bustles around, unconcerned and pretending to be uninterested in their antics. 

Jaskier can’t be quiet any longer. He wipes his sweaty palms on the quilt covering his legs and says, “Why are you angry?”

“I don’t understand how after all these years you’re still so foolish.”

“What did I do?” Jaskier asks, blinking. It’s possible that in his delirious state he did something, though he doesn’t think Geralt would hold a grudge over Jaskier’s feeble slaps and senseless babbling.

Geralt’s jaw tightens and he leans back in his chair, away from Jaskier. “You wandered off and stepped right over an echinops.”

A long pause. Jaskier stares at Geralt incredulously. “My great offense is that I walked in the grass? I think I’ve paid for it enough without your—”

“Don’t!” Geralt repeats, nostrils flaring. Jaskier’s shoulders bunch, and he shoots a quick look at the woman, who has stopped rattling around and is pointedly looking out the window, maybe pretending not to be there.

He swallows and looks again at Geralt. “Don’t what?”

“Stop defending yourself!” the witcher grits out. His hands clasp the arms of his chair hard, and Jaskier imagines that if he wasn’t sitting on it, he might have thrown it across the room by now, though, in fairness, Geralt isn’t prone to ridiculous displays like that.

Jaskier throws his hands up. “You’re joking!”

“No!” Geralt shouts. A blue vein is protruding on his forehead. He swallows hard, and Jaskier watches the effort as he softens his voice. “I don’t…I’m not angry.”

“Then stop yelling, you absolute—” before he can finish, Geralt is standing and he huffs through his nose, staring down at Jaskier. Then he turns on his heel and stomps out of the cottage, slamming the door behind him.

The woman returns and takes her seat once more, not bothering to contain the enthralled glint from her eyes, and passes over another bowl of broth. Jaskier holds it until the warmth seeps through into his hands. Then he drinks it, taking slow sips this time. The flavor isn’t bad, but slightly bitter. Like very strong tea. 

Eventually, the woman gets him something more substantial to eat and tells him her name is Raulla, rolling her eyes and lightly pushing his shoulder because they’ve apparently been over this several times already. He falls asleep not long after. When he wakes this time, finally feeling resettled and solid in his own body, Geralt is sitting in the chair by his bed again, picking at his breakfast.

Jaskier tries to stretch the stiffness from his shoulders and says, “Are you feeling better now?” Geralt looks at him and nods grimly. “Good. So, you should apologize.”

Geralt scratches the beginnings of a beard. Considers his words. Jaskier has the good sense not to rush him, occupying himself with stealing a slice of toast. Geralt collects himself and says, “I shouldn’t have yelled at you.” It seems like that’s about as good as it will get unless Jaskier wants to push Geralt into some sort of crisis, and Jaskier appreciates that he’s admitting that he was wrong.

Jaskier pats his arm kindly, feeling very gracious, and says, “I’ll be more careful for creatures I can’t see and don’t know exist.” Geralt snorts and hands over his other slice of toast. 

That’s the end of it, really. Raulla starts stripping the bed as soon as he slides out of it, laughing through his offended whining and threatening to reinsert the tweezed thorns if he doesn’t quit. There’s a definite wildness in her eyes that makes him suspect she would at least try, so he does as he’s told. Geralt packs their things onto Roach, tucking away the concoctions he traded with Raulla for, and checks over Jaskier’s leg one last time.

They say their goodbyes and then return to the road, neither of them mounting Roach, giving a wide berth to suspiciously overgrown patches of grass and roadside graves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was that confusing? It makes sense to me but I wrote it so….  
> Also, I'm posting this early because I wasn't sure I'd have time to get this up on Friday due to the holidays.


	22. Interlude: Communication

It’s edging into winter again, and Geralt starts directing them north, agreeing to deposit Jaskier in Redania before continuing to the mountains. Jaskier prepares to say goodbye for the upcoming months and doesn’t mention that once Geralt leaves him he might relocate a little farther south with the Countess de Stael, who he’s sure will be happy to have him. There’s no reason to confess that he’s just stretching out their time together as much as he can. Geralt would probably just be annoyed by the wasted effort.

They’re between towns and Jaskier dreads laying down on the cold ground, knowing the chill will seep in through his bedroll then down to his bones. This time of year, it’s hard for him to move when he wakes up, like all his joints have frozen over, and he has to dedicate a significant chunk of his morning to stretching, regardless of if Geralt wraps around him at night and piles on extra blankets.

He walks through the trees, breaking up sticks for the fire and letting his mind wander to great halls and feasts set before him, several courses long. A cushioned bed with real pillows and as many layers of fresh-smelling blankets as he fancies. Good company to press close and keep him warm without needing to be motivated by concern or lack of funds for separate beds. 

When he gets back to Roach, Geralt is gone, probably trying to catch something hearty for dinner. Jaskier hopes he manages; he could use something other than hardtack and the nameless flowers and pickings Geralt sometimes hands him to chew on.

Jaskier’s already shivering so he bundles one of the blankets around his shoulders while he sets out the bedrolls and kneels to work on the fire, careful not to drape the fabric too close to the flame. He can only imagine how Geralt would react if he came back to find Jaskier burnt himself to a crisp in an apparent effort to keep warm. It only takes him a few tries before the flame is going and he scoots in as close as he dares, letting it seep into his skin and inside the blanket before reluctantly rising to show Roach a little love, throwing another blanket over her back and then digging around his own things for a treat. He finds a sugar cube, wipes off the lint and hands it to her before wiping her spit from his hand, patting her affectionately, and grabbing his lute.

He plucks absently, running through a few traditional songs he hasn’t heard in a while but used to think he’d never escape. The familiarity is nice now, sometimes, and Geralt doesn’t particularly want to listen to songs about his own heroics, regardless of how catchy they are. Jaskier tries to accommodate him, as long as he isn’t composing.

Geralt steps out through the trees and Jaskier smiles at him and the three fish he’s carrying. The witcher has an odd look on his face, but he just nods and gets to work on the fish. Jaskier keeps plucking along through the songs while Geralt prepares their meal.

Their conversation is quiet in the dark but easy. Jaskier talks about the upcoming winter and asks Geralt a bit about Kaer Morhen, which earns him the usual vague and sardonic answers, mentions of harsh environments and skulls and how the castle is hardly standing in places but is properly fortified where it matters.

Eventually Geralt says, “Get closer to the fire,” and Jaskier does so without comment, keeping on with his rambling. He talks a bit about the Countess, about how they met and why they continue to meet after all these years, and Geralt seems interested enough.

Geralt hands him his fish and Jaskier is quieter when he chews but not actually silent by any means, speaking rudely around mouthfuls of food while Geralt focuses on picking out bones and shooting him disapproving looks.

Jaskier notices that Geralt ate his portion very fast and he takes another bite of his own, chews it slowly and then groans, holds his out and says, “I’m never going to finish this,” and Geralt takes it easily, polishes it off while Jaskier wipes his hands off and then closes his eyes.

Jaskier says something about a nice bed and when he opens his eyes Geralt is wiping his hands on the front of his breeches, eyes ticking around for something and Jaskier tosses him a flask that Geralt easily catches. It is very strong booze. Geralt arches a brow at him but happily gulps it down.

Jaskier takes a sip from a waterskin, then crawls over to his bedroll. “I’m gonna sleep like a rock,” he grumbles and Geralt just hums, taking another gulp from the flask before screwing the lid back down and getting up.

Jaskier bundles down, curling around himself, under the extra blanket that smells strongly like horse and isn’t quite long enough to stretch lower than his knees. Geralt moves around behind him and Jaskier knows he’ll see him shivering, knows that he won’t comment because there are really only a few things to do about it and Geralt learned a long time ago that asking _are you cold?_ when he so obviously is only earns him sarcasm.

There’s a dragging noise and Jaskier already feels relief before the sound stops at his shoulder. He opens his eyes and glances over to see that Geralt has brought his bedroll over and now starts to maneuver into it, not sparing Jaskier a glance until he’s tucked in.

Geralt says, “Come on,” and Jaskier smiles, shuffles that last inch over, burrowing into Geralt, tucking his head at his shoulder and pressing his hands into his side, icy fingers sliding around the witcher’s furnace-like heat with a moan. Geralt hooks his arm behind Jaskier and lets it settle along his back, holding him loosely. Jaskier shivers against him for a while, listening to Geralt’s calm breathing and feeling the measured rise and fall of his ribs against him, faintly certain that Geralt can feel the clatter of his heart where their chests meet.

Jaskier says, “This would be nice if I didn’t feel absolutely flayed.”

“Go to sleep,” Geralt murmurs, pulling him in just a little closer. Jaskier nods, and tries.


	23. Djinn

“In this short Life that only lasts an hour  
How much- how little- is within our power” _  
― _**Emily Dickinson**

Jaskier has been friends with the Countess de Stael- or, as he knows her and is privileged to call her in private, Virginia- since he was a boy at Oxenfurt. She was just a year older and yet so much greater, so tall and firm and worldly. An inspiration. A muse with fiery red hair in heavy waves down her back, tamed into a braid or wonderfully loose. Gleaming chestnut brown eyes always set into an amused smirk; one brow cocked. He was drawn to her like a moth to light, and she welcomed him with equal desire.

It felt so good to be wanted like that, beyond a simple tryst. They sat together and talked, and she only laughed when he was funny, not out of pity or cruelty. Many of his evenings were spent with her, studying and reading and reciting. She loved poetry; her favorite words were written ones, and Jaskier, still Julian then, had tried his hand at it. She would drape herself over his shoulders and hum as he read her his work, or when he pulled out his lute and whispered to her a private song, his hands still nervous then, until she stilled them and gave her approval.

Their relationship wasn’t monogamous or constant, and when he finished his schooling and determined that he was meant to travel she had simply smiled and nodded, told him to visit her with his stories. And, whenever able, he did.

When he announced his moniker, Virginia seemed to pick up on the change easily, barely stumbling, as if someone had already delivered the news to her and she was just waiting for Jaskier to come to the same conclusion. If he returned each year with a fresh name she would probably nod and get on with it. 

Her home is one of his favorite winter roosts when money isn’t so tight and he can go without working for a while, and if he is in the area, he always does his best to drop by. There have been a few missteps over the years, hitches and hiccups in their relationship that they always recover from. At times, Virginia is a little too easygoing and doesn’t seem to care at all that he is around, or all his stories are too much, his shoulders a little too heavy, and she is overwhelmed with not knowing what to do with him. On the road, he gets used to doing most of the talking, and goes on and on, rudely blathering over her until she snaps. He is nosy and clingy; she is prideful and removed. They argue for no good reason at all, irked by the trouble of knowing each other and emboldened with the knowledge that they can get away with almost anything and still inevitably be forgiven before their next visit. 

Except this time, she asks him to stay.

He is sweeping her hair off her shoulders and kissing the bare skin there, just below the arch of her neck, reaching for the laces at the back of her dress with smart fingers. She speaks so plainly, like she always does. In that knowing way, as if all the answers are laid before her in simple-to-read prose. It’s so reassuring to feel like someone knows. It’s one of his favorite things about her, that knowing.

Virginia sighs when he kisses her, that old familiar kiss, and says, “Stay with me.”

He rests his chin on her shoulder, glancing at the book resting open on the desk. One of her long-standing favorites. Jaskier remembers the first time he noticed her reading it, how he had traced his fingers along the worn spine and known straight away that she loved it. He’d gotten his own copy the next day, hoping to understand. To see what it took to be loved by her. The silly things young people do.

He nips lightly at her skin and says, “Such a generous hostess.”

She turns so he has to pull back or get swatted, so they’re facing each other, and says, “No, Jaskier. Stay with me. Stay forever.”

Her eyes are wide with an uncertainty he’s never seen in her eyes, and for a moment he can do nothing but stare into them.

Then understanding strikes him hard as a fist, leaves him boggled and wrong footed. “Oh. Oh, _Gin_.”

She sets her jaw. “We’ve been doing this so long. Why not settle into it?”

“I…” He stops, forcing himself to really think about it, think about having a bed and a whole manor of rooms and things that will grow familiar, that he can call his. He thinks about resting and doing nothing but fall deeper in love and write nonsense songs, tell stories. Get old and settled.

Never see Geralt again. No, that’s harsh. It’s dramatic. Geralt would visit. Surely, Geralt wouldn’t just wave him off and vanish. He would visit. Once every few years.

And Jaskier would be Julian, again. Not by name, but every day he would be living the life he’d run from.

He considers all of this and says, “No.”

Gin looks like a collapsing tower and he thinks _this is what would have happened to me if I’d stayed_ and he thinks _this is what will happen to me if I never stay in one place_ and he doesn’t know which thought is correct. Either way, putting that look on her face makes him sick with himself.

She nods and _there’s_ the steely look he knows so well, hastily affixed like a mask, hiding away the pained expression with stoicism. Cutting him out, like dead flesh. She returns to her book, swiping her hair back onto her shoulders with a careless hand. Her voice is downright imperious when she says, “Stop wasting my time then. Go fuck off to your travels. Become an old man with no home.”

And so, he goes. More than one of their rendezvous have ended this way and it never feels good but it’s not the end of the world. Jaskier gathers his belongings and marches out of her home with the air of someone who has done nothing wrong and fully expects to return.

He’s barely left when reality sinks in, and then he’s crying in the street like a fool because she looked like shattering glass and his body aches and this time was _different_. She asked him to stay. Why did she ask him to stay? And he hadn’t even tried to be gentle, just outright rejected her. That’s different than a silly squabble. It’s _different_.

Soon after, he starts drinking, and once he gets drunk, he starts looking for Geralt. He suddenly needs to see him, a viscous need that drives Jaskier from tavern to tavern, drinking his money and hunting for rumors of where the White Wolf has been. It’s a sloppier version of his usual process, which means that it stretches out until he wonders if he’s just moving in circles, if the leads he’s following are anything at all. When he gets mostly sick of being drunk, he slows on the drink but keeps up his search. 

The first mistake is probably that he knows Geralt is nearby and shows up tipsy anyway. Jaskier has been described as abrasive at the best of times, and his personality is only amplified when he’s had too much booze. Sometimes he becomes more flirtatious, sometimes extremely dramatic, and sometimes he just loves to poke bears.

He finds Geralt and he learns about his djinn solution to a painful but relatively simple problem, and laughs because it’s a little insane that Geralt’s gone straight to a magical answer when Jaskier can think of a whole plethora of better ways to wear yourself out, or at least a few medicines and herbs that could probably knock him down if they adjust the dosage. They could even go to someone who could brew Geralt up something special.

But then the djinn and the wishes.

Bickering, then a great wind and more shouting, more chaos. Almost instantly, Jaskier can feel his throat tightening until his breath is little more than a strained wheeze, and racking coughs spur up blood. Red escapes his lips and dribbles down like drool, and he illogically tries to catch it with his hands, looking at Geralt plaintively as the witcher stares back, face open and stunned. Normally it’s good to be stunning, but Jaskier would probably appreciate it more if he could take a full breath.

Geralt maneuvers him onto Roach, then lugs him back off the horse and into a tent. Jaskier is only half aware of what is happening, mostly focused on the crowded feeling in his throat, like he tried to swallow a rock, and the coppery taste that becomes more prominent with each shuddering rise of his chest.

Jaskier is dying. Really, really dying. Confirmed by a healer dying. Or, still bad, he’ll lose his voice.

He grips Geralt, who pat, pat, pats his arm and says _that won’t happen_ but he definitely doesn’t seem confident. Jaskier wants to scream at Geralt for once again messing with things he knows are dangerous, because it always goes to hell. Then he’s being dragged around and back up onto Roach, the ride throwing him around roughly. It’s harder to concentrate after that.

Geralt hits someone in the face with coins, then hoists Jaskier over his shoulder like a brute and takes him to a naked man who says something about juice. Juice? Sex. The room is undulating around him, writhing and grabbing and moaning, but Jaskier’s not really part of it. He’s there, and there are a lot of hands, nails running through his hair, and someone’s breast very close to his face, but it’s a bit like floating on your back in the ocean, letting the waves push you to shore.

And then, and then, and then. He wakes up in a strange bed with a stranger woman. She threatens him and gropes him while she does it which is a very confusing and scary feeling. Amphora and wind and one last wish that he snaps out uselessly. Confused, he expects that she’ll kill him anyway, but she sends him on his way instead.

Worry settles into his gut. _Where the fuck is Geralt_?

Then the witcher appears, looking like he’s had his own troubles. Ignoring Jaskier’s attempts to flee, he charges back in. Of course, Jaskier _wants_ to follow him, but he feels hollowed out; his throat still aches and he can taste his own blood. Jaskier throws his arms out, grumbles and complains and stays behind with, incredibly, the healer. Was the healer at the orgy? Was there actually an orgy?

A ruckus. The house collapses. Geralt is dead and Jaskier should have followed him. He always follows him.

Then Geralt is alive, very alive.

And. Well. Jaskier wanders off with Chireadan, who leads him back to his medical tent. Now that Jaskier can actually focus on something other than his breathing, he takes a moment to study the place. It’s simple, as expected, with tables stacked with supplies, a few chairs and three beds lined along the far side of the tent, none currently occupied. Chireadan palpates his throat and gives him a few things to drink. As Jaskier swallows the fluids of each bottle in turn- one is plain and cold, the next fizzes and pops down his throat, and the last is pleasantly warm- the elf tells him about the sorceress and her enchanting ways, making Jaskier feel sick again.

Satisfied that Jaskier will mend with time, Chireadan directs him to one of the beds. He watches Jaskier slip under the blanket, then snatches the covers from the next bed over and settles it over him, smiling kindly.

“It gets cold out here,” he explains.

After the excitement of the day, both of them fearing for their lives at one point and ending with aching hearts, they waste time chatting, carefully avoiding mentioning the people they’d rather be with right now, who would apparently rather be with each other. Jaskier’s eyes start to droop, and Chireadan pats his leg and wishes him a good night before leaving, perhaps going to a private tent, or maybe even a nearby home.

By now the tent is perfectly dark, and Jaskier can only hear crickets and the low voices of the regular residents of the campsite, who Chireadan assured him wouldn’t invade the medical tent unless they needed help. The night air is cool, and Jaskier tugs the blankets up over his shoulders, burrowing deeper into the bed. He lets his exhaustion take over, sinking easily into sleep now that his adrenalin has crashed.

Something brushes his arm, and he jolts awake, swiping a hand out blindly. It catches on flesh; a very broad shoulder, a strange leathery shirt. Jaskier grips it weakly, and uses it as a boost, sitting up and squinting into the dark. His eyes are adjusted enough that he can see that it’s just Geralt, kneeling beside the bed so his face is almost level with Jaskier’s.

Jaskier glances around the tent and is pleased to see that it’s just the two of them. He looks back at Geralt and does a quick assessment. The witcher looks like a mess, his hair tossed around and tangled, small cuts and bruises scattered over him, and his once-black clothing dusted over from the fallen roof. Jaskier stares and thinks _why’d you do that?_ though he’s not really sure which of the evening’s events he’s thinking about, specifically.

Geralt makes no secret of his own careful appraisal of Jaskier’s condition. His eyes scan over what little he can see of the bard’s neck, then linger on his lips, as if waiting for another glut of blood. He stops just short of reaching out and running a hand over Jaskier’s throat for his own medical opinion. Jaskier self-consciously brings up his own hand to feel around where his skin had swelled, tips of his fingers lightly dragging along the now clean skin and the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows.

Once finished with his study, Geralt lets out the tiniest sigh and asks, “How are you?” His voice is gruff and lightly hoarse, like he needs a drink of water. Jaskier would offer, but he doesn’t know what’s in all the healer’s bottles and lost his waterskin somewhere between the Countess’s chambers and here.

He also doesn’t know where his lute is. That’s somehow more concerning. Did he have it with him at the lake? Did Geralt have the presence of mind to grab it, or has it been abandoned somewhere? That will have to be dealt with, but not yet. Not until he’s had a full night’s sleep, not until his head is clear.

Jaskier nods, barely able to keep his leaden eyes open. He should tell Geralt everything Chireadan told him; his throat will heal with time, but he has to rest it. His voice will be out of sorts for a while, but not long if he treats himself well. Warm drinks and plenty of rest. Right now, it just hurts too much for so many words.

Suddenly, Jaskier feels very sick, nausea cramping along his gut and heating his cheeks. If he had to guess, one of those three potions doesn’t agree with his stomach, probably that bastard fizzy one. He lurches up, startling Geralt, who jerks forward and grabs Jaskier’s shoulders to steady him. Jaskier opens his mouth to warn him to move out of the way, but winds up vomiting over Geralt’s lap instead, sharp pain flaring as it burns up his throat. 

They both stare. There’s yellow, foamy stomach acid pooled on Geralt’s thighs. Jaskier hasn’t eaten today outside of the medicine and the ale he’d been guzzling embarrassingly early the previous day. And there’s blood. Frothy pink bubbled across Geralt’s new trousers.

“Ugh.” Jaskier turns his head and spits, trying to rid himself of the taste. Bile and blood make a poor combination. 

Geralt says, “Are you still bleeding?” His voice is strained and now he does bring a calloused hand up to Jaskier’s throat. His palm is warm and calloused and Jaskier swats him away before he can lean into the touch.

He snaps, “I was already looked over, thank you!”

Geralt sits back, lowers his hand and has the gall to look confused. “Aren’t you…better?”

It must look bad that he’s lying in a strange bed in a healer’s tent, bringing up blood still. Jaskier shakes his head and opens his mouth to say something sarcastic because he feels bad and angry and _now it matters?_ but then Geralt surges forward.

Panic, just on the wrong side of frenetic energy, burning in his gaze as he grips Jaskier’s shoulders iron tight, thumbs pressed just under Jaskier’s collarbones. “No. She wouldn’t say you were better if you weren’t. If she…if the djinn—”

Jaskier wipes off his mouth in an effort to clear away most of the evidence, then rests a hand on Geralt’s chest. It lands over the medallion, blocking the witcher’s heart, but Jaskier can still feel how unmoving his ribs are. “Breathe. I’m alright. Just…residual. I don’t know. Residual whatever. I’m fine.”

It takes a moment to process before Geralt sighs. Jaskier suddenly deeply wishes he would go away. He doesn’t know why he’s mad because Geralt brought him here to get better and he’s better. None of the rest of it should matter. There’s nothing to be upset about. Geralt wasn’t trying to hurt him. He doesn’t _try_ to hurt him. Never. 

Jaskier glances at Geralt, who does look wrecked but also quietly _pleased_. He doesn’t want to think about the sorceress and cuts his own thoughts off by saying, “Glad that’s over. Now clean yourself off.”

Geralt snorts and Jaskier smiles a little bloodily. They cast around for a cloth, and Geralt winds up with some sort of cottony fabric that he swabs himself up with. The clothes will have to be cleaned in the morning. Or replaced. Jaskier can’t really tell in the dark, but he seems to remember that Geralt had been wearing very tight, unfamiliar clothes before he’d trotted off to help the sorceress.

He yawns, not bothering to cover it up, and reclines back into the bed, nestling under the blanket and tucking himself farther to the side, nearer the tent wall. Geralt watches him shuffle around with a soft expression.

Jaskier says, “Here,” patting the unoccupied area on the bed, expecting Geralt to climb in beside him and sleep like they have a hundred times before. Geralt stares at the space, then at Jaskier. Doesn’t move.

Meeting Jaskier’s eyes quite steadily, Geralt says, “There are a few things I need to get done before morning.”

_Ah._ Jaskier retracts his hand. “Oh. Alright, see you then.” He rolls so he doesn’t have to look at Geralt anymore, ignoring the sting in his chest and staring steadfastly up at the ceiling seam.

“Right.” Geralt doesn’t move for a moment, remaining in his kneeling position, hands loose on his lap. Then he stands in one swift motion. _That’s done, time to go._

Before he can vanish through the flap of the tent, off to tend to whatever unfinished business he’s returning to, Jaskier calls out for him. Carefully isn’t bothered by how sharp his voice sounds, like the sudden blare of light reflecting off glass, enough to make them both jolt. When Geralt stops and turns to face him, Jaskier feels something like shame creep into his stomach, a feeling he isn’t used to. Not with Geralt, at least.

Displaced. He’s being displaced. Set aside. Maybe. Geralt has always said that Jaskier is an annoyance, a flea biting his ear, young and silly and bidding for the witcher’s attention, demanding to take up space. But they look after each other. Jaskier makes sure Geralt gets looked over after a hunt, that he gets his full pay and a good meal, that less and less people scream and claw at him for what he is. Geralt makes sure Jaskier stays out of danger, that he doesn’t actually get beheaded over a cuckold or freeze to death on the road. It’s not always natural, but they’ve worked their way through until each act became easy. Until they both knew what was allowed.

But today that didn’t happen. Well, that’s not fair. It had happened. Geralt had carried Jaskier to Rinde, to the mayor’s house and through an orgy to make sure he didn’t die. That’s enough, probably. Geralt couldn’t control that he wasn’t around when Jaskier woke up, and leaving afterwards was necessary. No matter what Jaskier thinks, it was important for him to save the sorceress, and he is under no obligation to stay with him now.

Jaskier is just being irrational. Melodramatic. Jealous. 

He’s not sure what he wants to say, but he twiddles his fingers together and whispers, “And we’re…leaving? In the morning?”

Geralt doesn’t answer for a moment, then licks his lips. “If you’re well, we’ll leave.”

With that, Geralt goes. Jaskier watches him push past the tent flap and listens to the crunch of his boots as he walks away. Then he slumps into the bed with a shudder. He blinks at the darkness, now finding it oppressive instead of peaceful. Swallowing down the dread in his chest, Jaskier tries to go back to sleep. There’s a horrible, cold voice in his head and a feeling in his stomach of loss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer will eventually become an intrinsic character in the story (hence the pre-geraskefer tag) and I love her a lot, but at this point Jaskier doesn't particularly like her. Don't take his bitterness as mine, is what I'm trying to say.


	24. Forgiveness

It is very possible that Jaskier does not have the capacity to be angry with Geralt for long spans of time. It’s also possible that he never really figured out what he was mad about. He just pushed it down before he could analyze himself too deeply and risk discovering something grim. Because, sure, Geralt yelled at him and made a wish that put Jaskier in serious risk of dying or losing his purpose, but everyone yells sometimes, especially when they aren’t feeling well. And Geralt had made the wish accidently. How can Jaskier be mad over an accident? And it had hurt his feelings when he woke up and Geralt was gone and had left him with a bloodthirsty sorceress. But that was cleared up pretty fast as not intentional. And is he mad that Geralt had sex with the person who threatened him and got what she wanted via mind control? Jaskier doesn’t really have a foot to stand on there, as his partners have occasionally put him at risk. And he doesn’t care who Geralt has sex with. The timing was bad, but.

Still, there’s a shameful, source-less kind of anger that Jaskier doesn’t know where to put. He is snippy and mean like a wounded dog, lashing out at Geralt when the man treats him gently or asks how he’s feeling.

“Does it matter?” He snips, and Geralt looks confused, then frustrated. Which is an understandable response when someone is unreasonably upset with you, especially when you’ve gone out of your way to make sure they live and that they’re doing alright.

Geralt has been putting effort into making it up to Jaskier, in his own way. They haven’t talked much about what happened, not the wish or the sorceress, but Geralt has been kind. Kind in ways that are almost overwhelming. Small things that are only meaningful with context.

From the time they left Rinde, Geralt has allowed Jaskier to ride Roach. This is such a unique privilege that Jaskier stumbles in his haste to mount the horse, as if afraid that Geralt will rescind the offer. The first time, Geralt watched him amble up with a strange expression on his face. Before Jaskier had time to analyze it, however, Geralt had turned away, grabbing Roach’s reins and leading her along. Jaskier could hardly stop staring at Geralt long enough to enjoy the ride.

And then when they set up their camp, Geralt makes careful adjustments. One of Jaskier’s duties is to sort out the bedrolls, and he places them, as he usually does, so that they can both be warmed by the fire without tumbling in, and they both have space to stretch. This arrangement rarely changes unless the wind is particularly brisk or the weather harsh. On such occasions, Geralt will wordlessly set himself up like a wall to shield Jaskier a little. Or, he’ll move in even closer so Jaskier can lean into his warm back, or Geralt can sling a heavy arm across him. Now, as the night winds down and Jaskier is curling up to sleep, he hears a dragging sound behind him and twists around to see Geralt shoving his bedroll directly beside Jaskier’s. The weather doesn’t call for it, certainly. The only other time Geralt and Jaskier sleep so close is when they have to take a room with only one bed and neither of them is willing to sleep on the floor. Or when one of them is sick or hurt.

Geralt catches Jaskier staring at him, and he huffs, looking indignant. He grumbles, “Just in case.” And it’s so odd, so protective, that Jaskier can only open and close his mouth and then lay back down, very aware of Geralt slipping into his bedroll. 

Jaskier still can’t sing when they reach the nearest inn. The fear of that tingles through his fingers, and seems to expand to bursting in his chest. What happens if it never comes back? If he’s never whole again? He can still play his lute, but people want singing. He’ll have to start writing Geralt’s chronicles in prose, and how far will that go? So many people can’t read or don’t have time to. And the people his stories need to reach, the ones that ignorantly hate witchers, certainly won’t spend time or money on a book if they already think it’s a waste of time.

Not to mention that he loves singing and can’t imagine his life without it. But he can’t deal with that right now, and promptly smothers it.

Stepping into the inn feels shameful, though no one says anything to him. There are a few hopeful glances in his direction, though, as Jaskier is definitely recognizable, particularly when he’s running around with Geralt and dressed like a peacock. He lowers his head and doesn’t meet anyone’s eye.

He hears Geralt order a meal and a bath up to their room. Then the witcher grunts his name, and Jaskier trails behind him, feeling pitiful. All he wants is to curl up in his bed and sleep until it’s time to leave.

Geralt lets them into the room and starts arranging his things, setting his swords where they’ll be within reach when he sleeps and carefully stripping off his armor and boots. Jaskier places his lute reverently on the corner table, then sets about removing his own clothes. Geralt watches him carelessly drop his doublet on the ground, followed by his trousers, until he’s only in his undergarments and undershirt. Jaskier then wordlessly tucks himself under the covers of his bed, bundling deep down and shutting his eyes with a sigh.

He’s dozing when the door opens and the tub is gradually filled. He can smell hot food but his stomach doesn’t growl. He hears murmured conversation. Geralt thanks whoever it is, and the person, voice pitched low, asks if his friend is ill. Jaskier doesn’t hear the answer, and stays very still so as not to grab any more attention.

When the door shuts again, the room falls back into silence and Jaskier tries to return to his napping. Geralt sighs heavily, and his boots thump as he crosses the room. Jaskier knows he’s approaching the bed, and knows when Geralt hovers just above him. He tightens his grip on the covers and hopes that the witcher leaves him to his grief, but the blanket is yanked back harshly and he’s forced to meet golden eyes.

“Get in the tub,” Geralt says, his voice authoritative. Jaskier glares up at him and thinks about saying no, telling Geralt to go fuck himself. But a bath sounds nice. Really nice. And warm.

With a groan, Jaskier sits up and pulls himself out of bed. Geralt shifts out of his way so he can get past him, but doesn’t retreat back to his corner of the room. When Jaskier gets closer to the water, he can smell the added oils, their delicate scent rising with the steam, and it soothes him. He breathes out and strips the rest of the way, then slips into the tub.

Jaskier soaks for some time, not putting much effort into washing himself. He just enjoys the warmth and wills away his misery. Once the water cools past the point of comfort, he rises and dries himself, taking his time. He changes into sleep clothes and then sits down at the table where his food has cooled. Geralt’s bowl is empty, and Jaskier wonders how he didn’t notice him eating.

Jaskier picks through his food, peripherally aware of Geralt reheating the bath with a Sign before stripping down and easing himself in. Once his stomach is full, Jaskier retreats again to the bed without a word and folds himself in.

After that, Geralt seems to steer them away from taverns or inns or anywhere else Jaskier regularly performs before people. On the road, Jaskier picks and strums his lute, and only very carefully attempts to sing. Each time, his voice is ugly and distorted, like a wet cough. Strained and unnatural. Hearing himself, his stomach roils and he snaps his mouth shut. Stays quiet for some time before he is brave enough to even speak.

So, he’s angry. Bitter and frustrated. He grits his teeth and snaps, crossing his arms over his chest and digging into himself, digging into Geralt or anyone who gets too close. His reproach builds around him like a slippery shield that he burrows down deeper into each time he opens his mouth and has to hear himself mangle words. Finds himself still unable to carry a tune or even hum without sounding wretched.

Geralt eventually has enough. He’s tending to Roach, removing her saddle and setting it out of the way before he starts to brush out her fur. Jaskier remains silent, sitting cross-legged by the fire and staring into the orange, flicking flames. He almost misses Geralt’s heavy footsteps, only looking up when the witcher’s shadow falls across him.

“What’s wrong with you?” Geralt grits out, hands hanging loosely at his sides. Jaskier refuses to strain his neck staring up at him, and pushes himself up, anger gathering like a tight ball in his chest.

Jaskier spits, “Nothing more than usual.”

Geralt blows air out of his nose, clearly not pleased with that answer. He tilts his head to look back at Roach, face twisted like he’s considering turning back and pretending he never tried to start this conversation. Jaskier only half-hopes he does it. But Geralt stays.

His voice is stiff, now, and he doesn’t quite meet Jaskier’s eye. “You’re pissed off about something.”

“I’m not upset about anything, Geralt!” Jaskier snaps, trying to sound exasperated. His voice is too hoarse to pull it off, and he winds up seeming more pathetic than irritated. The hot coal of rage burrows deeper, stinging all the way.

Geralt blows air out his nose, mouth set in a grim line. He wants to yell, Jaskier can tell. Jaskier wants him to, because then he can yell back, just as melodramatic as he needs to, cursing and screaming until they’re both out of breath, glaring and hating each other, just a little.

Instead, Geralt shakes his head minutely and drops his gaze, turning on his heel and picking the horse comb up from the patch of grass he dropped it in. Roach nickers when he approaches, and Jaskier stays standing there, shoulders bunched and cheeks flushed, all his frustration hitched up with nowhere to settle. 

Geralt apparently interprets this brief argument as Jaskier not wanting to be treated delicately, though that hasn’t really been the case before. Jaskier is a big fan of special treatment. Geralt stops letting him ride Roach, stops setting Jaskier’s bedroll so close to his, doesn’t offer to give Jaskier the first bath. Almost completely back to normal. They could pretend that nothing happened at all, if not for Jaskier’s damn voice.

The one thing Geralt doesn’t stop doing, however, is brewing tea. When they stop at taverns, he orders hot tea and pushes it at Jaskier, then when they leave the city and are on the road, he boils water over the fire and soaks herbs in it, then demands that Jaskier drinks it all before it cools.

After the first week, Jaskier’s voice is still mildly and frighteningly croaky. It’s midday, the sun high in the sky. They’re taking a break, tucked in close to the shade of the tree line while Geralt clicks his tongue at Roach and gives her some water. Jaskier leans against a wide tree trunk and hikes one of his feet up, crossing it over his knee and yanking off the boot. Shake, shake. A stone drops out and hops once on the packed earth before settling. Jaskier sighs, resettles into the boot.

A familiar catch in his throat. He clears it, then tips his head to the side and spits crimson out onto the road. 

His nanny would be appalled; she always yelled at them not to roll in the dirt, not to screech and roughhouse, and especially not to spit. _Boys, please behave!_ She had such high hopes, and he’s only gotten worse with age.

Jaskier stares at the blood, setting his jaw against that now-familiar dread that the djinn permanently fucked up his throat. He’s scared. Acutely and irrationally worried that he’s not going to heal, though he knows that Chireadan told him that this was going to happen and that he’d be fully recovered in a week or two, that djinn magic is powerful and it would leave a residual mess for a while, but not permanently. He’d been adamant about that. Jaskier’s good at catching a lie and he didn’t get a whiff of dishonesty off the unfortunate healer. It should be reassuring.

He takes deeps breaths to calm himself, deliberately lifting his eyes away from the blood. When he looks up, he catches Geralt watching him. The witcher is frowning and has his arms set motionlessly on Roach’s side while the horse lips at him, as if he was in the middle of doing something and halted to stare at Jaskier. 

The tight feeling in Jaskier’s chest releases, and he feels his shoulders slump, his frustration draining away. He stares for a moment longer before licking his lips and closing the distance between them. As he approaches, Geralt hastily returns to what he had been doing before, which was apparently double checking that all the saddlebags are secure. They are.

Jaskier says, “Geralt, do you think we could set up camp? I know it’s early.”

Geralt’s frown deepens and he takes a step forward before stopping himself. “Do you not feel well?”

“It’s just…” Jaskier grits his teeth, then steels himself. “No, I _don’t_ feel well. I really don’t feel well and I want to set up camp for the night. And drink some tea, if you have enough herbs. Because…I’ve been worried. You might have noticed, I’ve been worried. About. My throat. You understand?”

A beat passes in silence, and Jaskier watches the muscles in Geralt’s face twitch as he processes. Then his shoulders drop, relief hitting him all at once, as if the world has righted itself around him for once. Jaskier is letting something go, asking for help in the way he’s supposed to, in the way Geralt expects him to, and he’s talking about his feelings and whining enough that Geralt must feel that they’ve slipped back into normality.

Geralt nods eagerly and starts unbuckling one of the bags he’d been fiddling with. “I have enough herbs.”

Jaskier expects Geralt to needle him a little bit about slowing them down, but he doesn’t tease. Jaskier has let go of what he was feeling, but Geralt isn’t letting go of whatever is hanging over him. They set up camp quietly, and it’s not quite the companionable silence they might usually share while doing their chores, but it’s better than the tension that’s been sitting between them for the last week.

Jaskier sets up their bedrolls and Geralt prepares some water to boil and drops in those medicinal-smelling herbs. He watches it carefully, then pours it into a travel mug and hands it to Jaskier. He says, “Let it cool,” like he does every time, like Jaskier doesn’t know boiled water is hot.

Jaskier quips back, “Of course, darling,” and it makes Geralt roll his eyes. He gets some twine and gestures at the trees before stomping out into them, wordlessly heading out to set some traps. It’ll be hours until either of them wants to eat so they have time to let the traps sit. Jaskier sips at his tea and lets it soothe his throat, making sure Geralt isn’t returning from his quest before letting go of a few frustrated tears.

He manages to wipe his eyes and finish his tea before Geralt returns. The witcher stands at the edge of camp looking suddenly a little lost. They don’t usually camp this early unless one of them is unwell or a hunt runs into the morning. Geralt doesn’t know what to do with himself; Roach doesn’t need any care, nor do his swords. Eventually, Geralt grabs his bag and starts pulling things out, taking stock.

Jaskier watches for a while, then sets his drink aside. “Geralt.”

Geralt looks up, then glances at Jaskier’s empty mug and says, “More?”

Jaskier chuckles and shakes his head. “No, thank you. I just wanted to say that you shouldn’t feel guilty about the Djinn.”

Geralt stares at him for a long moment, and Jaskier expects him to argue because of his guilt complex, or maybe snort and say _why would you think I felt guilty? That was your own fault._ But Geralt just frowns, then fills the kettle with more water and starts making the tea Jaskier declined.

They fall back into silence, waiting for the water to heat up, until Jaskier can’t stand it anymore and says, “Of course, you don’t need my forgiveness. I just know how you get. That’s the only reason I’m bringing it up. To make sure that there’s no doubt.”

Geralt uses the herbs that were already sitting on the bottom of the pot, stirs the tea and watches the color of the water darken. And Jaskier almost reverts back to being snippy, almost says something like _and it was all worth it so you could sleep, yeah?_ Because Geralt has been sleeping rather well. But he stops himself and watches Geralt fill his mug, takes it when it’s offered.

Jaskier swallows, says, “If you don’t say something, I’ll lose my mind, Geralt.”

Geralt sighs, dumps the used herbs into the grass with some excess water, and watches it soak into the dirt. Finally, he asks, “Is your throat any better?”

Jaskier takes a gulp of his tea, jumping when the molten liquid burns his tongue because apparently, he _doesn’t_ know boiled water is hot.

“It is. I’ll be back to my usual self before long. Next tavern, I’ll be back on my feet.”

Geralt just nods and says “Alright.”

And they don’t talk about the Djinn again for some time.


	25. Yennefer

Yennefer. _Yennefer_.

The sorceress is named Yennefer and she’s slithery and snide and she looks down her nose at Jaskier like he is a clump of something that fell off the bottom of Geralt’s boots.

She’s also unfortunately gorgeous, with waves of black hair and violet eyes that flare with each emotion that she doesn’t bother to conceal or suppress. Her voice tips and twists around words, and if he didn’t loathe to hear her speak, he’d want to listen to how she recites poetry, what it sounds like when she whispers and laughs without that smug clip, when she says anything at all really. But he doesn’t want that because she’s someone to behold but also to avoid, if he’s smart. If he’s given the option.

After everything, Jaskier truly believed that he’d never have to see her again. It’s not like Geralt has never fucked someone related to a contract, but usually they move on and it never comes up again. Yennefer, who could never be called typical, starts appearing at random. Sometimes when Geralt disappears he mentions that he is going to meet with her, always in that eager but nervous way he has, and it sinks like lead in Jaskier’s gut. Other times, he and Jaskier will be having a perfectly pleasant conversation and Geralt will mention her like it’s nothing, like she’s integral to his life, like it’s so natural, like she’s always on the tip of his tongue, at the edge of his thoughts. 

And Jaskier could deal with that because what does he care if Geralt has another friend? What does it matter if Geralt has someone he regularly has sex with? It’s not a commitment, and even if it is Geralt deserves something like that. Geralt deserves to have someone who he wants to be with. Who tugs a little grin to his lips when they’re sitting quietly and a passing statement or lyric reminds him of her.

And that’s Yennefer.

It isn’t jealousy. Jaskier has seen Geralt with other people, and Jaskier has accepted that Geralt will never want Jaskier the way Jaskier wants him. He wants Geralt to be happy. If anything, he feels protective. Protective because Yennefer is cruel.

Maybe he should pretend to like her, or at least tolerate her, but he just doesn’t have the patience for it. And there’s no point when every comment directed at him is so barbed anyway. Is he supposed to respond to her thorns with petals? No.

As always, she arrives without warning, like a stratagem of fate. They walk into an herbalist’s shop to find her standing there, inspecting a dark bottle, holding it up in one of her perfect hands and turning it this way and that, following the slosh of whatever fluid is within and arching an imperious brow as if displeased. Her eyes immediately flick up to where Jaskier and Geralt are standing and a slow smile peels across her face and crinkles those damn eyes. Geralt shifts beside him and sighs, relieved to be with her again, like a sailor finding their lover at the harbor, for fuck’s sake.

Jaskier groans, prickles of frustration spreading down his back. “Oh, wonderful.”

Yennefer spares him a glance and says, “Bard,” like she can’t quite remember his name, and steps around him to press a slow, lingering kiss to Geralt’s lips. Geralt makes a disapproving sound that probably has something to do with the public display, but he brings his hands up to cup her face so gently and doesn’t break away. Yennefer tilts her head back. Jaskier watches her teeth graze Geralt’s bottom lip before they are parted, and his eyes snap away. Still, he can hear the slow inhale as Geralt leans down and presses his nose to the line where her neck and jaw meet. Jaskier has heard enough about lilac and gooseberries for this lifetime.

Quietly, barely more than a low hum, Geralt says, “ _Yen_ ,” against her skin.

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “I guess I’ll do the shopping on my own then.” He walks to the back of the shop, deliberately not listening to whatever the lovers murmur to each other as he goes. The herbalist is busy shuffling a reddish powder into a container, pausing every other beat to check she’s not overdone it. Jaskier slouches on the counter and watches until she’s finished, then recites their list of needs while she nods and grabs from the shelves.

He pays and thanks the herbalist. When he turns around, Geralt and Yennefer are gone.

Jaskier sighs, and the herbalist pats his hand sympathetically. “Sorry, dove.” She considers him for a moment and squeezes his hand a little harder, says, “I do have something that won’t mend your heart, but might soothe it, occasionally. A little relief.”

Jaskier blinks. He’s no fool; he’s been offered similar remedies in the past, usually under different contexts and more related to stress or boredom than heartbreak. He hasn’t always said no, but he usually does because. Well. He likes to be present, and feeling things is better for his music. But there’s no reason he shouldn’t have a little pleasantness. A taste of oblivion. And he won’t have anything better to do tonight, certainly.

So, he smiles and says, “I could do with a little relief.”

The herbalist pats his hand approvingly. “Just a moment,” she says, and wanders to the back of her shop. She returns seconds later with what looks like a small tobacco tin; a silver, reflective square that fits nicely in his palm. “And this,” she says, holding up a simple pipe. Dark brown wood, rough and slightly gnarled, like it was pulled already made directly from a tree. She explains the dosage and how to pack it into the pipe, then taps her dirty nail against the tin. “Enough for three takings in there.” He nods, pays quickly.

Jaskier returns to the inn and thanks his lucky stars that he and Geralt managed to get separate rooms this time around, though he’s wondering now if that wasn’t actually a happy accident. He puts his purchases on the small table, separating his things from what he’ll have to give to Geralt later, then shoves the pipe and tin in his bag before heading to the tavern downstairs.

It’s around dinnertime, so the place is crowded and he would have a nice audience if his services were needed. However, there’s already a bard there, singing her own songs between classic drinking ditties. She has a nice voice, pleasantly raspy, and her songs lean more towards anger than his more playful or romantic tone. It’s good to hear something different, and to enjoy someone else’s work in a way he rarely gets to. The crowd appears to enjoy her quite a bit too, dropping whatever coin they can spare and shouting out a few requests.

Jaskier eats his dinner and has an ale. He’s about to make an early night of it, to wander back to his room and try to write something of his own, inspired by this bard to try to compose something with a hard edge, when Geralt and Yennefer emerge from wherever they’ve been this whole time. He wonders if he could make a break for it inconspicuously, but Geralt sees him across the room, locks eyes and nods as if to say _be right there_ , so there’s no use fleeing. He lifts his mug in a way he hopes Geralt understands as _grab me another drink_ and Geralt nods again, then makes his way to the bar.

Yennefer, however, bustles straight to Jaskier and sits down across from him.

“Good day?” She asks, looking not at all interested in the answer.

Jaskier grins with too many teeth and says “Oh, yes. And you?”

Yennefer returns the smile and says, “ _Oh, yes_ ,” right back at him.

They snip back and forth at each other for a while, reminding Jaskier a bit of his youthful sojourn into fencing that went nowhere. He glances over at Geralt, wondering if the witcher can hear them from up there, even with the noisy crowd, and why it’s taking him so fucking long to come back to put an end to this conversation and give Jaskier his damn drink. Yennefer trails his gaze and then she looks back at him with a sympathy that strikes him in the gut like a warning. A thrill runs down his spine and some animal part of his brain urges him to _go_.

“It must hurt,” Yennefer says, watching him, and Jaskier doesn’t ask what she’s talking about because fuck her, but she goes on anyway. “It must hurt horribly to give all of yourself to someone and to realize that if they move on, you’re left with…some songs. Some stories to tell. But, of course, you must have a life outside this. You’re human after all. You’re always getting older, and you know these adventures can’t last forever.”

Jaskier swallows. Hot anger collects between his ribs. “It must _hurt horribly_ , Yennefer, to know that there’s not one person in your life you haven’t hurt. Even the ones you claim to care about. But I suppose when you only have so _little_ to give, some manipulation becomes necessary.” 

A moment passes. Yennefer stares at him hard and then laughs that airy laugh that isn’t sincere at all and she looks at him in that knowing way that makes Jaskier want to recede into nothing. He huffs and returns his attention to Geralt, who doesn’t look like he heard any of their conversation.

It’s not long after that that Geralt finally makes his way through the people, gently nudging drunks out of his way, balancing too much in his hands. Neither Jaskier nor Yennefer jump up to take any of it from him. Jaskier bitterly thinks he deserves it for leaving him with the sorceress for so long, and Yennefer just looks amused that Geralt is trying to carry it all on his own. Geralt settles it down on the table and makes a face at Jaskier that clearly illustrates that he expected some help, and then shoves Jaskier’s fresh mug at him.

Jaskier doesn’t want Yennefer to see how badly he needs the drink and so doesn’t gulp at it right away, just takes a modest sip and then sets the mug aside for a few minutes before taking a heftier drink. The attempt at a conversation between all three of them is a quick failure, each word sharp and lined with hidden meaning, generally unkind. Jaskier isn’t totally oblivious. He really doesn’t need to be here, so he loosens his control a little and gets the drink down.

He sighs, pats his chest and tells Geralt, “I think I’ll settle in early,” and then leaves before either of them can question him. Not that they would.

On his way past, he hands the bard some coins and smiles at her. She nods appreciatively, the beads threaded through her hair clicking chaotically. Then blinks like she is trying to place him.

He disappears to his room. It’s warm enough that he can comfortably wrench open the old window, grumbling and banging the frame with the heel of his hand when it sticks halfway up. With a whine, it shoots the rest of the way, nearly sending his forehead into the glass before he catches himself.

Jaskier leans his elbows on the wood and ducks his head out, watching horses and people move around the street, hurrying to wrap up business before the full darkness of night settles in.

And he’s never going to sleep, damnit. He’s worked up with nowhere to put the energy. He should have been a little more social downstairs- then he could have found someone to distract him for the night and had a better excuse to become scarce.

Jaskier sighs and gives in, digs the pipe and tin from his bag and thinks about the nice cool air outside, thinks he’d do well with a walk. He tucks the items into a pocket, pretending not to notice the conspicuous bulge, and wanders back downstairs. After a quick scan of the room he doesn’t see Yennefer or Geralt at their table or tucked away in any corners.

He hops outside and inhales the small-town air, letting the easy breeze settle over him as he walks around and tries to keep track of what streets he’s taking. It’s easy enough to circle back to the inn once he’s worked out some of his excess energy. Jaskier dips into the stables. The stalls are occupied by three horses including Roach. Thankfully, no people. Jaskier strokes Roach’s velvety nose and shows her some affection, then, feeling their eyes on him, gives the other horses attention too. Then he makes himself a place in the hay to sit and opens the tin.

It looks a lot like chopped up bits of wood, but it’s soft when he presses down on it with his finger pad. Smells slightly musty. He takes the prescribed amount and puts it in the pipe, then lights it with a match and inhales. Warmth; his lungs seem to stretch like rubber, weighted with pleasantly bubbling water. The hazy smoke whirls back into his eyes, making him blink hard, and he parts his lips to slowly blow out until his lungs feel clear. Repeats.

Once the effect kicks in, it’s nice. He doesn’t feel loopy or heavy or excited like some other things do. But there’s a gentle tingle around his chest and the back of his skull that seems to intensify pleasantly when he tilts his head around, like twinkling lights around his brain. And there’s a lightness, a slight lift. He’s not floating, but there’s a little less weight on him. He hums appreciatively and mentally thanks the herbalist for her thoughtfulness.

Jaskier sits alone for some time, directing his smoke out the door and away from the horses, who don’t seem at all alarmed or upset at his activity.

The pipe is halfway back to his lips when something brushes his leg. He jolts, nearly tossing the pipe in his uproar, before his eyes hook onto a dark skirt- his attacker- and follow it up to Yennefer’s face. She stares down at him, one neat brow arced.

She is wearing a different gown, now. It’s black, of course, but softer and embroidered with white flowers. He wonders if this is what she sleeps in. It seems fancy for a country inn, but so do most of _his_ clothes, so who is he to say. And she looks nice. Beautiful, of course. She’s always beautiful, despite everything.

Jaskier must look like a child hiding his bad habits, sitting with the horses and smoking. If he’s honest with himself, he might have been worried about getting caught, that maybe Geralt would smell the stuff and throw some kind of fit. Though, really, it’s unlikely that Geralt would care about something like this.

“Yes, dear?” He hums. It’s doubtful that Yennefer needs a horse right now and there are really very few reasons for her to hover over him unless she wants something. Jaskier doesn’t know what she would ever want from him.

Yennefer moves a supercilious eye around the stables then refocuses on him. Seeming to make a decision, she walks around and lowers herself into the hay beside him. It’s madness, absolute madness, but she sits there in her embroidered nightgown with him in a nice doublet that’s admittedly a little dusty from the road, neither of them quite fitting in the space, and he hates her but when she reaches for his pipe he hands it over easily and watches with interest as she takes a draw from it. She inhales slowly, then purses her lips to blow the purple-tinged smoke out. She looks like absolute art and he hates her _for_ it and _despite_ it.

They pass the pipe back and forth a few times until it’s done and Jaskier sets it on the ground between them. He closes his eyes, lets the bubbles wash over him and hums a tune, tapping his fingers on an imaginary fingerboard. Yennefer leans back and watches him.

He says, “I don’t know you at all.”

She chuckles. The noise comes from deeper in her chest, now, and finally sounds sincere. He finds that he quite likes it. In truth, he knew he would. How could he not? It’s lovely.

Yennefer says, “No.”

Jaskier thinks maybe this would be a good time to clear the air but he also wonders if somehow that’s what they’ve been doing for the last few minutes. It’s hard for him to navigate without words.

Before he can draw a conclusion, she rises back to her feet, which he can now see are tucked into delicate slippers, and brushes her hands down the back of her gown to rid it of hay. He thoughtlessly reaches out and plucks a loose strand from her skirt. Yennefer watches but doesn’t comment. 

She twirls around and her nightgown flares just the tiniest bit, brushing against his ankle before resettling. Without another word to him or the horses, she makes her way out of the stables and leaves him. Jaskier stares at the horses, thinks that he should go to his own room, but feels too wobbly on his feet.

He stays and sleeps in the hay, waking a few times through the night when a horse nickers or shifts.

He is woken in the morning by a concerned stable boy, who shakes him lightly and asks, “You aren’t sick, are you?” Jaskier shakes his head. There’s a dehydrated kind of pain behind his eyes and he smells like hay and smoke and horses, but is no worse for wear.

He steps back into the inn and goes straight for breakfast. Geralt walks down from the rooms and looks at Jaskier oddly, sniffs him and asks, “Rolling in the hay?” with a quirked smile. Jaskier just grins slyly in return because otherwise he has to say _I was doing drugs with the horses and your lover_. There’s a song in that but he’s too tired to pry it apart just yet.

He rubs his eyes and takes a few bites of egg, then asks, “Where’s Yennefer?”

Geralt’s mood immediately seems to drop. He shakes his head. “She left.”

Jaskier thinks about it and says, “Hmm, too bad,” without trying to conceal his sarcasm. Geralt hums and takes a drink. And then it’s back to normal, until the next visit. So on, so forth. 


	26. Water

They’re between jobs and towns, walking down a trail with trees directly on one side and a low slope on the other that curves gradually about six feet out before running into more trees. A ditch. Rain from the night before has worked the road into a slick and uneven mess. In places, the mud grabs tightly to Jaskier’s boots and suctions them down, while in others the worn bottoms can’t find purchase at all. He traverses carefully, slipping and tripping as he goes, cursing each time. Geralt periodically glances back at him with an amused glimmer.

It doesn’t help that Jaskier is feeling needlessly morose. He attributes it to the weather and wills his mood to improve, tucking his chin down so he can watch his feet as he navigates the treacherous road. 

Jaskier is an inch away from asking Geralt to just let him on the horse for the love of all that is holy, when he slips a final time. His legs shoot out from under him and he goes down with a yelp. The ground seems to roll to the left so his body, cracking down wetly, goes with it and tumbles down the ditch. It happens fast enough that after that initial yell he makes no more noise, holding his breath and not processing his position fast enough to scrabble for purchase.

By the time he fully understands his situation, the bottom of his boots crack against the low line of trees. _Hard_. Pain splinters up his shins and he groans, folding his body forward to rub his palms along the bones. Finding no damage, he groans again and slouches back to rest on his forearms. He sits there quietly for a moment and catches his breath.

There’s a noise from above and he looks up from his muddy clothes. He has to squint against the gray sky above, but he sees Geralt. The witcher is leaning, hands on either knee, frowning down at Jaskier. He says something. The words don’t quite make it past the echoing nothing currently taking up the space between Jaskier’s ears, and he just blinks somewhat dully.

Momentarily stunned, it takes a beat before Jaskier calls up, “Say again?”

Geralt doesn’t repeat himself. Instead, he slides down the ditch on both feet, like a goat on a mountain, more graceful than is really fair after Jaskier’s tumble. He kneels next to Jaskier, who hasn’t moved yet, and asks, measuredly, “Are you alright?”

Jaskier sighs, looks down at his clothes again. “I’m fine.” He follows Geralt’s eyes and discovers that his undershirt has split vertically over his stomach. Every inch of his skin has been dusted and smeared with mud. “ _Hell_!” Jaskier snaps, and starts writhing around in the mud, rolling onto his hands and knees before trying to stand. Unsuccessfully.

Geralt blinks, then laughs. A big, full-body laugh that seems to sap the strength from him so that he spills over onto the mud and lies there, just cackling at Jaskier. Jaskier has half a mind to shove some of the mud down his throat but it _is_ really fucking stupid and he can only imagine how ridiculous he looks right now so he lets it go.

“Help me up!” He hollers, but it only has the effect of redoubling Geralt’s laughter. He throws his head back and presses his hands against his stomach, shoulders rattling, as if he can push his hysterics back into his gut with a little effort. 

Jaskier gives up and slumps forward into the slanted earth, planting his whole front on the muck and turning his head to the side to watch Geralt shake with glee, fighting off a smile of his own before the tickle overwhelms him and he is laughing along, heedless of the cold, seeping mud or the fresh smear of it across his cheek. 

Eventually, Geralt gets ahold of himself and rises to his feet, grabbing Jaskier under his arms and hauling him up somewhat painfully. Jaskier digs his boots in and says, “Don’t let me fall!” He clutches Geralt’s sleeve as the other man guides him up from the ditch back up to Roach. The horse stands staring at them with definite judgement in her eyes.

Once they reach the top, Geralt takes Roach’s reins but doesn’t climb into the saddle. He holds Jaskier’s sleeve with the other hand, walking between them with a gleeful expression stuck on his face, like he might break into laughter again at any moment.

Geralt glances at his undershirt, torn and dirty, and says, “For your sake, I hope it rains again.” Jaskier swats at him but quickly stops when it nearly sends him back on his arse.

It’s still sunny when Geralt pulls them off the road. He takes them deeper into the woods and away from the main path than Jaskier expects. He lets go of Jaskier’s sleeve as there’s better grip for his boots on the forest floor, and Jaskier realizes what they’re doing when he hears rushing water.

He beams, speeding up a little and then shouting with joy when he sees the steady river. It’s maybe five feet wide, and there are round stones settled at the bottom and a few fallen trees along the bank on either side, where larger stones are angled like lounging chairs. Faded sunlight peeks through thick rainclouds, sparkling meekly off the water.

Jaskier strips quickly while Geralt takes care of Roach. He doesn’t look back before he wades into the water and makes his way to the center, finding that it’s only a few feet deep. He crouches and brings a few handfuls up to scrub his face clean, water moving around him. He runs the water over his arms, over his chest, careful to make sure none of the mud sticks in his chest hair. When he looks over, Geralt is leaning against a tree and watching him. Probably making sure the bard doesn’t get swept away.

Jaskier leans forward to dip his head under, running his fingers through his hair and ridding it of mud. He rinses hastily, starting to shiver, then emerges. He makes an exaggerated brrrr noise and turns back to the bank, seeking out Geralt, and nearly jumps out of his skin when the witcher is suddenly right there, directly in front of Jaskier. He’s dressed, but his pants are rolled up and he’s holding a bottle that Jaskier doesn’t immediately recognize as his own soap. From his bag.

He’s about to ask _were you going through my things?_ But cuts himself short when Geralt pours some out onto his hand and says “You didn’t get it all.” Then he drags his fingers a little too firmly though Jaskier’s hair, rotating his hand to manipulate the dark strands. Some of the suds run down his forehead and Jaskier snaps his eyes shut to avoid getting any in his eyes.

There’s no question that Geralt is bad at this. It isn’t soothing or even pleasant. He pulls too roughly on Jaskier’s hair and doesn’t massage his scalp the way Jaskier usually does his. He goes until the soap suds up, then pats Jaskier’s shoulder and says, “Rinse.”

Jaskier goes under again, his elbow bumping Geralt’s calf as he scrubs his hair. After a moment, he pulls up and glances at Geralt, squinting against the sun.

“All gone?” He asks, hopefully. He doesn’t think he’ll survive another attempt.

Geralt inspects him and then nods. Then he caps the bottle and returns to the bank, leaving Jaskier standing there, staring after him, very confused. He looks himself over and then follows, sitting on a large rock in the sunlight and willing himself to dry so he can dress and get some sleep. His legs ache a bit from where he jarred them in the fall.

He’s also feeling gloomy again, any good humor from earlier seeming to be sapped out by the stone beneath him, sitting hollow and uncomfortable in his chest.

After a while he feels dry enough to get dressed. His bag is leaned against a stone and he digs around for clothes, then pulls them on quickly. His hair is still wet and the clothes cling a little uncomfortably to him in some places, but the fire will remedy that. He grabs his bag and walks to the camp Geralt has been busy setting up.

Geralt glances up at him when he approaches and nods, then goes back to the pot of what looks like boiling herbs. Some kind of broth. Jaskier discovered a long time ago that sometimes it’s better to eat what’s put before him without question.

Jaskier digs out his notebook and scribbles away for a while, humming as he works, before a bowl is pushed into his hands. He blinks out of a musical haze and then takes the bowl, blowing and then tipping it so that he can angle some of the herbs closer to the edge and grab them with his teeth.

He chews, then says, “Mm. Very good, Geralt.” Geralt hums and takes a sip.

After their meal is done, Jaskier takes the bowls and the pot to the river and cleans them. He refills the pot with water and returns it to the fire to boil.

When he returns, he hears a woman’s voice, which is alarming enough but then he sees Geralt staring at what looks like a snuffbox. Staring very intently. For a second Jaskier thinks that Geralt might have found his little box of powder he got months ago from that herbalist. But he realizes quickly that this box is rounder and much more heavily engraved and actual silver rather than tin. And it’s talking.

Jaskier steps closer, but before he can understand what’s happening, the little box goes silent. Geralt sighs, tucks it away.

“What was that?” Jaskier asks. Geralt almost startles when Jaskier clambers up and puts the pot over the fire. It’s disconcerting that he was focused enough on the box that he wasn’t paying attention to his surroundings. Jaskier, of all people, shouldn’t be capable of getting the drop on Geralt.

Geralt looks at him almost guiltily. Apparently, he wasn’t supposed to know about the little box, which simultaneously ignites his curiosity and makes his chest ache with disappointment.

Geralt says, “It’s a xenovox.”

“A what?”

“Some call it a xenogloss.”

Jaskier shakes his head. “I still don’t know what that is, Geralt.”

When Geralt is uncomfortable, he goes very still, like he’s focusing to catch every noise and twitch around him. Jaskier notices that his shoulders are straight and tight, and his eyes are intent on Jaskier’s.

“It’s for long distance communication,” he says evenly. 

“Oh. Seems handy.”

“It is.”

Jaskier licks his lips. He doesn’t need to ask who Geralt was talking to, then. He swallows, checks the water. It seems to be boiling very slowly and suddenly he needs a drink. He drags his bag over and looks for the small flask he keeps tucked away.

He’s yanking nonsense out of his bag and setting it to the side when Geralt says, “We’re going to change direction. Head west.”

Jaskier finds the flask with a pleased “Ah ha!” and unscrews the lid, taking a big swig. Geralt stares at him. Jaskier wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, thinks for a second and asks, “When did she give that to you?”

Geralt blinks. Jaskier can see him try to find the connection between what he said and Jaskier’s question. He’s wondering why the fuck it matters and Jaskier doesn’t know either so he hopes if Geralt figures it out he’ll let him know what’s going on.

Geralt shrugs, says, “Early on.” So, he has had it for a long time, now. Maybe right after everything with the djinn. A long time. A very long time.

Jaskier nods. “I guess that explains how you’re always bumping into each other. Must make it easy. To stay in touch.”

And now there’s a stupid burning in his eyes that he tries to smother with another swig from his flask. _Stop it_ , he thinks. _Don’t be like this_. Geralt sounds very reluctant and confused when he says, “Yes.”

Jaskier tucks the flask away without offering any to Geralt. He hates when Geralt looks at him like that. Like he’s confusing. Like he’s too fucking complex for Geralt to wrap his mind around.

They fall back into silence. Jaskier thinks about how when they get to the next town Yennefer will be there, and he really doesn’t want to do all that. All the sparring and the sneaking and hiding and feeling like an outsider when being with Geralt is usually the easiest thing in the world. Knowing that it’s Jaskier’s fault that it’s uncomfortable because he’s the only one that is upset, and he doesn’t have any right to be upset so he can’t say anything. It’s damnable. It’s unbearable. He doesn’t want to keep doing it.

Jaskier checks the water. It is boiling now, so he takes it off the fire and waits for the bubbles to calm before he starts pouring it into his waterskin. Geralt watches him silently for a few minutes before he says, “You’re going to burn yourself.”

And he’s absolutely right because just then Jaskier splashes some of the water onto the skin between his thumb and index finger. He drops the pot and the waterskin with a pained gasp, bringing the hand to his chest and leaning forward until his ribs are resting on his knees. Geralt is suddenly beside him, grabbing his elbow and tugging gently.

He says, “Jaskier, let me look.”

But Jaskier shakes his head and shouts, “Get the water!”

Geralt opens his mouth, then stops himself and rights the waterskin, which barely has anything in it anyway. The pot kindly fell right side up so that some splashed out of the top when it hit the ground, but a majority of it stayed in.

Jaskier groans and slowly uncovers his hand, cupping his other palm over it so Geralt can’t see. He doesn’t know why. Maybe he’s embarrassed. The skin is red and blistered. He hisses, tucks it back away.

Geralt is watching him with his brows furrowed. “Let me see,” he says, more insistent now.

Jaskier grinds his teeth and says, “It’s fine. I just need to put some salve on it and a bandage.” Geralt makes a noise that might be a growl but he goes to his bag and gets the salve and the bandages. Jaskier reaches for it with his good hand but Geralt doesn’t pass the supplies over.

Jaskier stubbornly considers refusing, just setting his jaw and leaving the hand be. He’s going to get a scar, anyway. A stupid, embarrassing scar that he got because he was doing something ridiculous, something that he knew better than to do. Instead, he sighs and pats the ground next to him. Geralt sits and waits for Jaskier to give him his hand, which he does.

Geralt takes it carefully, resting Jaskier’s palm on his own. His hand is rough and warm. Calloused so differently than Jaskier’s.

“You really got yourself.” Geralt murmurs, then guides Jaskier’s palm down on his knee and uses both hands to open the bottle of salve. There are sharp sparks of pain shooting up Jaskier’s hand and he thinks he could probably get away with crying now if he wanted. He doesn’t. It’s just a little pain. A little scar. A little silver box. There’s nothing to cry about, really.

Geralt starts rubbing in the salve. It hurts very badly and Jaskier tries to jerk his hand away but Geralt holds it there firmly by his wrist, as if able to read Jaskier’s mind. Jaskier hisses and bangs his other hand against the ground because what the hell else is he going to do. Geralt stays silent, makes sure the damaged skin is properly covered and then reaches for the bandages.

Once it’s wrapped and secured, Geralt lets him have his hand back. Jaskier pulls it in close and releases a breath, closing his eyes.

And then, because his hand hurts and because he’s a ridiculous man, Jaskier looks down at his bandaged skin and says, “Something pretty spectacular must have happened in that tower for you to fall in love so fast.” He glances over because he’s a glutton for punishment, and there’s a look in Geralt’s eye. Like he wants to say something, but won’t. All these fucking secrets. He doesn’t even deny that he loves her. Jaskier laughs. “I mean, how long have we known each other? And you get jumpy when I call you my friend. It’s amazing.”

Geralt stays silent. Probably knows that there’s nothing for him to say that would improve the situation. Jaskier hates him for it. Wishes he could actually hate him. Or at least care a little less.

He scoots away from Geralt, towards his bedroll. Geralt sighs. Jaskier shuffles into his bedroll and his hand hurts and he doesn’t want to see Geralt with Yennefer. He wishes somewhere along the line he had made something for himself, that he hadn’t put all of his eggs in one basket. He feels stupid, and he feels like he’s running out of time to make any of it better. He doesn’t know if he has the heart to pull away.

His throat feels thick and he doesn’t look at Geralt when he says, “I’m not going west.” Geralt doesn’t say anything. The poor man is probably very confused.

In the morning, he and Geralt get up and around like they always do, making sure the fire is totally dead and that they have all their things packed away. They drink a little water and set out on the road. Then, when Geralt turns down a road going west, Jaskier continues north.

They’re apart for only a month before they bump into each other and rejoin. They don’t mention the conversation when they meet up. They don’t talk about what happened in their time away from each other, and Jaskier doesn’t do his normal prying. They just greet one another and continue on like they were never apart at all.


	27. Monsters

They’ve barely stepped foot in Guaamez when a local sees them and ushers Geralt over. He’s tall enough to look down at Geralt, and the front of his lean body is covered in a bloody apron. Geralt makes a face but goes and Jaskier follows him into a nearby butcher shop, where they push past the storefront into the backroom, the stranger looking around with an almost paranoid fervor. The smell of blood and fresh slaughter is heavy enough to turn Jaskier’s stomach, and he takes deep, controlled breaths to acclimatize, something he learned to do a long time ago.

Usually, being called for so quickly is a good sign because it means that there’s definitely something going on, and there’s no need to look for notice boards or wait for word of Geralt’s presence to spread before they have a job.

But when this butcher talks, it’s with the tone of rumors. Rumors and gossip that people are willing to kill over- something that always makes Jaskier uncomfortable. Not because he thinks Geralt would ever kill someone or something without cause, but because he hates to think about the subject of the rumor being left to deal with a town of people who suspect they’re a monster. A displeased and scared farmer can kill just fine on their own, and Jaskier often wishes they could better persuade people that they’re wrong. But once someone has made a decision, they want the job done.

The man whispers like the supposed creature will hear him, and he tells Geralt and Jaskier about Otto Dussart. “The man is _odd_.” 

Jaskier scoffs and Geralt discreetly elbows him. Geralt asks for elaboration and the man goes on to explain that Otto lives on the edge of town on a modest farm. He has lived in the same house his whole life and mostly keeps to himself, but a few locals have spotted a large dog- maybe wolf- roaming around the area, and a guest at his house said that he had an inordinate amount of raw meat about (Jaskier immediately looks at the raw meat all around them, wonders if this man is just worried about competition), and that a few of his neighbors have had livestock mauled.

“He’s a werewolf, I tell you. It’s well known in town, and we want it gone. It’s not right that we can’t feel safe in our own homes.”

Geralt just nods. “I’ll look into it.” 

The man nods back. Jaskier arcs a brow and says, “And should we look to you for payment?”

The butcher glares at him. “Aye. The town will pool together for it. I’ll have payment for you when the job’s done.”

Geralt and the butcher start bartering over price. Jaskier feels stuffy in the backroom, eyes flickering from the stained central table to the various animal bits organized and waiting to be moved, then back to the grumpy man and his crossed arms. Jaskier pats Geralt’s bicep and steps back out to the front, then through the front door, taking deep breaths of the fresh air and watching people pass by, going about their days. They stare at him as they go, clearly taking note of the stranger. He imagines if he stayed here for any length of time, they’d think he was _odd_ , too. And if they didn’t have a job for Geralt to do they wouldn’t be friendly towards him either.

He hates towns like this. It never ends cheerfully and they always wind up sleeping in someone’s barn instead of an inn.

Jaskier jumps when Geralt finally emerges from the small shop. Geralt starts walking, says that the man offered them his barn to sleep in and that he’d take them there at the end of the day when he closed up. Jaskier nods. It’s as he feared, but at least it’s free. He won’t be getting much work done in a hayloft, though, unless the cows are feeling generous and offer more than just milk.

They spend the day restocking their supplies and then sitting in a local tavern. Geralt and Jaskier collect information in their own ways, Geralt sitting in the corner and listening while Jaskier plucks at his lute and is extremely nosey. A few of the more talkative folk chat with Jaskier, and some of the quieter ones wander over to the witcher to give their handful of tales. Geralt asks more focused questions about the wolf, about the meat, about what Otto is like while Jaskier just prods for stories, letting them be as big or small as the teller wants them to be. Jaskier has a good eye for embellishment, and usually does a good job of deciphering which bits the people actually believe.

The sun is going down when Geralt and Jaskier leave the tavern and return to the butcher, who locks his door and looks at them hard before gesturing that they should follow. It’s obvious that he wouldn’t generally elect to spend this time with a witcher, and he definitely wouldn’t be welcoming one to his property in any other circumstance.

The barn is mostly unoccupied; one rotund cow, two goats and a horse that stares at them with a discerning eye and squirms in her stall. Roach flickers her ears and the other horse only hesitates for a moment before answering in kind. The butcher walks resolutely to the far end, reaching out without looking to pat the cow’s seeking nose, and stops before a ladder, which he grabs and shakes, turning to look at Geralt as he does it. The metal rattles, and a few bits of hay rain down from the loft above.

“Sleep up there. It’s cleaner. Less shit.” And with that, the butcher turns on his heel and leaves without another word.

Geralt makes sure that Roach is alright with her arrangements. Their host was kind enough to grant her some space in the barn with his own animals. Jaskier sets a foot on the lowest rung on the ladder and puts his weight down. Sturdy enough.

He twists around to smile at Geralt. “I’ll make sure there are no pixies or lubberkin up there. Clear it out for us.”

Geralt snorts. “I’m grateful.”

Jaskier climbs, peeking his head over the top to make sure that there isn’t actually anything horrible waiting for him. Judging it to be safe enough, with the exception of a few possibly-rotting beams, he crawls up the rest of the way. Cozy, as far as haylofts go. He circles around a few times, checking the suspiciously off-color wood and shoving some of the hay around to make room, before shuffling back to the ladder and leaning over.

“Toss the bags up.”

Geralt arches a brow, then walks their things over and passes them up, apparently not trusting Jaskier to catch them. Jaskier gestures at him very _maturely_ and _appropriately_ , then gets to work setting up their bedrolls and scrambling together a meal. It’s not long before Geralt joins him. They take their time eating, chatting lazily and listening to the chatter of the animals below until the barn is sufficiently dark so that there’s nothing for Jaskier to do but go to bed.

The loft is small enough that if Jaskier or Geralt roll too far one way or another they’ll fall and either end up underfoot or in a pile of shit. But it’s warm and they’ve definitely had worse.

It makes it hard for Jaskier to relax, when he keeps worrying that their host will change his mind about being so hospitable and the bard will wake up with a pitchfork in his gut. Awful way to die, he imagines. Prongs.

Sometimes he thinks about when he was a boy with dreams of adventure and wonders what he would think of himself now, piling up hay and chatting with his best friend the witcher who he’ll be bedding down with in a perfectly platonic way. He’d probably be skeptical but not unhappy.

Jaskier reclines on his bedroll and says, “It’s a good thing I’m not asthmatic,” which makes Geralt snort.

Jaskier is on his back with his hands on his stomach and his eyes closed, and after a moment he feels the hay shift around while Geralt stretches out and gets comfortable. He listens to the other man breathe, and the bleats and grunts of various animals. He also listens, a bit paranoid, for footsteps around the barn.

He can’t sleep. Opens his eyes to stare up into the inky dark of the barn.

Jaskier whispers, “You’re not asleep, are you?” Geralt sighs but doesn’t say anything. Jaskier waits for his eyes to adjust to the dark and continues, “Have you ever dealt with a werewolf before?”

A long stretch of silence. “Why are you so sure it’s a werewolf?”

“I’m not sure old Otto is anything but a carnivorous loner. For all I know he’s a violent human who slaughters animals for fun. But the people around town made him sound like a werewolf. So, have you?”

Geralt shifts. It makes the hay crackle. “Hmm. I have. Not many.”

“Is it true that a bite will change you into one?”

“Not usually.”

“And can they only be killed by silver?”

“It works best.”

“You said you _have_ dealt with one?”

Geralt shifts, and Jaskier imagines it’s a shrug. “They’re not common. The one I dealt with was feral. It nearly ate its way through a whole town before I came around.”

Jaskier can’t help his shiver. “Hell. Do you think Otto is one?”

“I don’t know.” A pause, then, “Jaskier, go to sleep.”

“I can’t.”

Another sigh. “Too much ale?”

“Not enough. I can’t stop imagining the butcher sneaking in here and chopping me up.”

“Why would he do that?”

Jaskier sits up on his elbows, casting out a hand until he finds Geralt, who makes a displeased sound but doesn’t push his hand away.

“You saw the way these people were looking at us. We’ll be lucky to get out of here unscathed.” Geralt grunts but doesn’t argue. He’s likely more aware of it than Jaskier is. Jaskier closes his eyes again, collapses back down without pulling his hand back, and says, “We’ll be on our way out and one well-aimed stone will thump me in the head. Imagine it, your bard brained in these unfamiliar streets.”

Geralt hums unhappily. “The stones will be aimed at me.”

“I’ve been hit by stones directed at you before. After nearly twenty years of association, my head is nearly as good as yours.”

“Quiet, now. Close your eyes.”

Jaskier sighs, moves around a bit fussily. After a long while, he falls asleep to animal noises and Geralt’s even breath.

He wakes up alone, drool sticking hay to his face. He rises, clumsily tripping down the ladder, and steps outside to find Geralt up by the main house talking to the butcher, who stands in the doorway with his door cracked open, peeking out at the witcher. Jaskier rolls his eyes and then wanders away to piss. He finds a well and pulls up a little cold water to clean up with, then takes the bucket back to the barn and offers it to Geralt, who has returned to gather his things.

“What’s the plan?” Jaskier asks while Geralt splashes the water in his face. Geralt explains that he’s going to Otto’s house. Jaskier tries to imagine a scenario where that goes well, and decides it’s only possible if Otto is just a regular man. Then again, that’s also probably the saddest possibility, since the other townspeople have already decided that he’s bad enough to warrant death. Geralt starts off and Jaskier follows.

They’re halfway through town when Geralt stops and sticks Jaskier with a very stern look. Jaskier grins back, amused by his lecture face.

“When we get there, you’ll have to wait outside. If something goes wrong it will be close quarters and it’s bad enough when I only have to worry about myself.”

Jaskier frowns, but ultimately agrees. He can’t imagine it’ll ease the situation to have a colorful bard listening at the window, but if that’s what Geralt needs it’ll have to do.

The house really is at the far end of town, and modest farm apparently means that Otto has chickens and a goat. The house is no larger than the barn they slept in and there’s smoke pumping out of a little chimney. Jaskier doesn’t immediately smell meat or blood, and looking around doesn’t reveal odd tufts of fur or scattered animal bones. He doesn’t know if any of this actually indicates that Otto isn’t a werewolf, but it’s the closest he can get to investigating when he doesn’t know anything. Geralt knocks on the door and Jaskier stands a few steps behind, scoping out where he’ll stand for the best chance of hearing and seeing whatever goes on inside.

Otto steps out. He’s probably around Jaskier’s age, but his hair has already gone gray and he’s tanner and very broad. His expression is morose before he has time to process who is standing there, but when it clicks his shoulders tense and his eyes widen.

There’s a heavy silence and then Otto clenches his jaw. “Can I help you with something, Witcher?”

Geralt pats his chest in the way that Jaskier knows means his amulet is shivering and he says coolly, “I’m sure you’ve heard what’s being said. I just want to talk with you. Get the truth.”

Otto breathes out slow and Jaskier tenses, half expecting the man to launch himself from the doorway, to tear apart and transform midair and land down teeth first onto Geralt. Instead he shakes his head and says, “Damn these people. I grew up in this house and _now_ they have concerns?”

“They say you’re causing trouble.”

“I know what they’re saying about me. That I’m just wandering around harum-scarum. What kind of idiot—” he stops himself, shakes his head. Runs his tongue over his teeth. He locks eyes with Jaskier and says, “I haven’t done anything,” adamantly, like he thinks he’s more likely to get the bard to understand than a witcher. Jaskier gets that a lot.

Geralt studies him, then says, “I want to hear you out. I’m not here to do anything.”

“I hope you’ll pardon my skepticism.”

Jaskier shifts uncomfortably. He looks hard at Otto and says, “If it makes you feel any better—” Geralt jerks his head to glare at Jaskier, possibly anticipating what he’s about to say and already pissed off, but Jaskier plods on. “—you could just talk to me. In your house. I’m a very good listener, you see, as a bard. And I can’t do anything to you. Well, I’ll give myself more credit than that. I could get a few good jabs in. But nothing serious.”

“Jaskier. No.”

Otto furrows his brow. “You want to come into my house? Knowing what I am?”

“I don’t really know anything. Geralt is terrible at explaining things. I’ve only heard rumors and I only mind the ones I enjoy.”

Geralt says, “You’re not doing that.”

Otto says, “I would be willing to talk to you.”

Jaskier says, “Wonderful. Geralt, I’m just gonna pop in for a drink.” He starts towards the door and Otto steps aside to let him in but before he can get close Geralt grabs his arm and yanks him back. Jaskier rolls his eyes. “It’s fine. This is hardly the most danger I’ve been in. Look at him! He seems like perfectly fine company.”

Otto smiles tightly. His knuckles are white where he has a grip on the door. Geralt looks at Jaskier hard and Jaskier just smiles and pats his hand very lightly where it’s still holding his arm hard enough to bruise.

Geralt inhales deep and lets Jaskier go. Jaskier straightens his doublet and turns back to Otto. They go into the house, closing the heavy door behind them.

Here’s the thing: there’s no doubt that both Geralt and Otto, who is absolutely a werewolf, can tell that Jaskier is in fact afraid. There’s also no denying that Otto didn’t start mindlessly attacking when he sensed he was in danger, and Geralt didn’t immediately pull out his silver blade and get to hacking at him. Jaskier is a good in-between, and Geralt will be able to hear everything anyway. Besides, Geralt said that a bite wouldn’t turn him into a werewolf and it would make a hell of a song: a bard interviewing a werewolf. It’s a good way to talk to Otto with a bit less intensity.

Otto does put the kettle on, though Jaskier meant something a little stronger when he suggested drinks. Tea will do. They wait for the water to boil and Jaskier hums mindlessly, looking around the house interior. It’s clean, tidy. There’s a stack of wood by the fireplace and cozy furniture. The armchair Jaskier winds up in is a little too gushy but not bad. Jaskier doesn’t spot an abnormal amount of raw meat, and there is no blood to be found. It’s a small farmhouse, with a bed shoved into the corner across from the dinner table where there are a few novels stacked up. Honestly, it’s quite nice.

Otto gets the tea and Jaskier thanks him. Otto looks at him the same way Geralt used to when they first started traveling, when he was waiting for the bard to scream and run away. There must be something wrong with him that the longer he sits here the less worried he feels. The surer he is that Otto isn’t going to kill him unless Jaskier earns it. He can practically hear Geralt pacing outside.

“Mm. You added honey,” Jaskier says, sipping the tea. Otto hums. Jaskier can’t sit in silence any longer, so he says, “What’s it like?”

“It’s sweet,” Otto says drily, and Jaskier does laugh.

“Not the tea, thank you,” he chuckles, setting the cup on his knee to keep himself from bouncing his leg eagerly, curiosity brimming over into his anxious limbs. There’s no delicate way to ask, and they’re perhaps beyond delicacy anyhow, so he continues, “When you _change_. Does it hurt? Or is it a relief?”

Otto shifts around. His tongue presses against his bottom lip, jutting it out like a frog’s vocal sac, and his eyes dig into Jaskier’s, searching. Finally, he exhales and says, “It’s like nothing at all. I’ve been doing it all my life.”

“You were born a werewolf?” Jaskier asks, raising his brows.

Otto waves a dismissive hand, as if this is so basic it isn’t worth saying aloud. “Goes back a few generations.” He sets his chin determinately. “My family hasn’t been violent in some time.”

Jaskier takes a sip of his tea, still contemplating this new information. “I thought it was a curse.” He stares at Otto, considering the possibility that he’s being taken for a ride and that Geralt will laugh at his gullibility when he recounts this conversation later, but Otto doesn’t look particularly amused, and his eyes are cold but strike Jaskier as sincere enough. 

A rueful laugh. “Right now, it feels like one.”

“But?”

Otto shrugs. “It’s not. It can be, but not for me.” His eyes flicker to the window, as if speaking directly to Geralt, who isn’t visible but whose presence weighs heavily in the room. “That also means I can’t be ‘cured.’”

Jaskier frowns. “Would you want to be?”

“I don’t know,” Otto says, a line appearing between his brows. “I’m going to be killed or run out of the home I grew up in. It’s hard to know what I’d decide if I was given the choice.”

Jaskier remembers the butcher with a painful pressure in his chest, as if certain hands have reached their fingers around his heart and restricted its pumping. He tilts his teacup, watching what’s left of the liquid slosh around the rim. Then he lifts his eyes again to meet Otto’s, his question sounding more morose than he intended. “But isn’t it fun at all?”

The corners of Otto’s eyes crease when he smiles. “The running is. At night.”

“Does it happen randomly, or with the moon?” Jaskier asks, feeling a bit silly for bringing up what increasingly feels like little more than silly folklore. He should probably know better by now that the stories hardly contain more than a grain of truth, particularly horror stories and fairytales.

Otto shakes his head, face curving into a knowing expression. He says, “I control it.”

“Really? Do you do it all the time?” Jaskier tries to imagine changing into a great wolf and prowling the woods at will and can’t help his smile. “I think I would, if I could get away with it.”

“It’s hard when your neighbors are nosey.” The corner of his mouth quirks up. “But I do it whenever I can. It is…very peaceful.”

“I have to ask…” Jaskier says, smiling. Otto looks at him but the tension has loosened and he seems half-amused by Jaskier’s questions. “No unquenchable bloodlust?”

“None. Though, I have eaten rabbits raw. And a few deer. But I’m not much for killing, believe it or not.”

Jaskier looks around the little house again, at the bed and the kettle. “I believe it.”

Jaskier finishes his tea and has another cup. When they’re done Jaskier says, “If nothing else, this is going to make a wonderful song. I’ll be vague about who you are, don’t worry.”

“Will I have a life to worry for?”

“Oh, yeah.”

When he opens the door, the sun has started to fall behind the trees. Otto stands cautiously behind him and Geralt is standing right there, close enough that Jaskier nearly runs right into him. Jaskier grins at Geralt and sees that he isn’t tensed to fight, not ready to attack. He does grab Jaskier, though, and pulls him until he’s behind Geralt.

Geralt looks at Otto and says, “I won’t bother you again. I’m going to tell the butcher that your curse has been removed. That you’re safe. And repentant, though your memory of any mutilations is foggy from possession.” Otto scoffs and Geralt smiles a little, as well. Geralt goes on, “I wouldn’t take the payment, but people are more suspicious when I do my work for free. It makes them think they’re being swindled. Not unjustly.”

“Of course. I don’t care what you do, as long as it’s far away.”

Geralt nods, then says, “I suggest you prepare to leave anyway. Your life here—”

“I know. I know.”

Jaskier looks at him apologetically. They never walk away from towns like this with smiles. Jaskier says, “Goodbye, Otto. I appreciate the tea.”

And Otto sighs, “I appreciate the company. It’s not often I get to talk about…all of it.”

Jaskier thinks, in a flash, about staying. But one look at Geralt has him following with a final wave.

They return to the butcher’s, and Geralt quickly gets Roach ready, tells Jaskier to makes sure he has all of his things. Jaskier double checks, finds that everything is in order. “Quick exit, then?”

“I think so.”

The butcher is still in town, and Jaskier stands beside Roach with the reins in his hands while Geralt steps into the butcher shop. Jaskier is uneasy with the people’s stares, their whispers. He feels less safe here than he did sitting across from a werewolf.

Geralt steps out and gestures for Jaskier to start walking, so he does. Geralt takes the reins from him and picks up his pace. Jaskier keeps up. He swears that the whispers get louder as they go, and by the time they’re nearly out of the town a glance back reveals that they’re being followed, and the whispers are a low, frustrated buzz.

Geralt says, “Don’t stop,” and Jaskier turns back to face forward and walks even faster.

He hopes Otto is already leaving, though it makes him sad to imagine the poor man being forced from his home.

Then the first stone thumps against Roach’s rump, and she whinnies and jumps and Geralt rights her with a curse. The next stone hits Geralt in the shoulder, and the one after that smacks his leg. The voices rise and they call out to them, call them thieves and bastards and much ruder things. A stone glances Jaskier’s ear and he gasps, ducks. The next one is square in his back. It hurts, but not unmanageably.

Geralt growls and mounts Roach before yanking Jaskier up and in front of him, his broad back shielding Jaskier from the stones. Then they’re galloping and the voices fade and Jaskier sighs, slumps back and pat’s Geralt’s thigh where it brackets him in, says, “Next time, we ride Roach out from the start.”

“Your ear is bleeding.”

“Damn. Bad?” Jaskier reaches back, is relieved to find that it’s hardly anything at all. They go a little further before hopping off of Roach. Geralt gives her pats and Jaskier gives her sugar and then they start walking again.

They trudge along for a while, even though it’s already dark. Jaskier wonders if they’ll walk through the night or if Geralt will have a little mercy on him.

He’s thinking about voicing a complaint when Geralt says, “Don’t do that again.”

“What’s that?” Jaskier asks, knowing full well exactly what Geralt is referring to. 

Geralt briefly tightens his jaw, setting Jaskier with a hard look, making it clear he realizes Jaskier is being intentionally difficult and that he doesn’t appreciate it. “Volunteer,” he answers, spitting the word as if it repulses him.

Jaskier snorts. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not,” Geralt says lowly. Jaskier crosses his arms over his chest, pressing his most scathing glare on Geralt. The witcher doesn’t cower, but has the decency to look slightly put off. 

“I did a good thing,” Jaskier grumbles, “I was helping.”

Geralt shakes his head. “It wasn’t necessary.”

Jaskier stops walking and Geralt staggers to a halt a few paces later, angling to face Jaskier with a miserable expression, apparently distressed that this conversation has expanded beyond his admonishment. It would be endearing if it didn’t drive Jaskier mad.

He releases his breath in an exasperated sigh. “Otto wasn’t going to let you in the house.”

“We could have talked right there,” Geralt argues. He tilts his head, chin tipping up so he has to look down his nose at Jaskier, who barks a laugh. 

“You would have interrogated him,” Jaskier snaps, “It would have been—”

Geralt cuts him off. “It would have been fine. I know what I’m doing.”

“Not when it comes to civil conversation,” Jaskier says, which isn’t really fair or accurate but feels nice to say. Geralt’s mouth goes flat, eyes pinching into a slightly pained glare.

“I faired perfectly well before,” he drawls. 

Jaskier fixes him with a look. “That’s very nice of you,” he says, each word irritated and deliberate, as if catching on his teeth. 

Geralt shifts around, working his jaw. He doesn’t look at Jaskier when he says, “I didn’t like it. It made me…uncomfortable. That you went in there alone.”

Jaskier feels his heart flutter, then shakes it off. Reminds himself that he’s an idiot. “You didn’t like having your control taken away.”

Geralt inhales slowly, gold eyes piercing through Jaskier as he struggles between gruffness and vulnerability. He swallows with some difficulty before flickering his eyes away, settling just over Jaskier’s shoulder like a perching bird, and saying, “Yes,” with a clipped voice. 

Jaskier sighs. “Look, that’s not what I was trying to do. I just wanted to help.”

“You…did.” It seems difficult to say, but Geralt completes the admission by forcing himself to look directly into Jaskier’s eyes, looking for all the world like the gesture pains him.

Jaskier rolls his eyes but takes the compliment for what it is. “Oh, such sweet talk,” he says, batting his eyelashes and leaning a tad heavily against Geralt, who swats him off in a huff. 

They walk a few feet further, slipping into a vaguely uncomfortable silence before Geralt tips his head to the darkening sky as if only just now noticing the disappearing lights. He sighs, starts pulling Roach off the road and says, “We’ll stop here.”

Jaskier groans, stumbling after him. “Good! I’m dead on my feet!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Otto Dussart is a book character from Season of Storms! Hopefully you like him because he will make another appearance in the sequels of this story hohoho!


	28. Birthday

There is enough space between each visit to Cintra that Jaskier finds Cirilla’s growth as astonishing and exciting as if she were transforming into a grand Phoenix before his eyes. She goes from a screeching, swaddled mess to a wobbling, babbling toddler, then into a rascally princess, turning her nose up when necessary but slopping through mud and playing games with the other children, completely unconcerned about protecting her gowns or delicate, royal skin. Jaskier marvels as she throws herself into chaos, quirking a brow and crossing her arms, acting obtusely like a miniature Calanthe, and devastatingly like Pavetta.

Jaskier is invited once again to perform at the young Cirilla’s birthday, and once he gets past the mind-boggling illustration of just how many years have passed since Geralt claimed the Law of Surprise and they became aware that there would be a child, and how much has changed since that first time he presented himself at the castle following Pavetta’s passing and was whisked into the royal nursery. He sets out, glad that he doesn’t have to come up with an excuse to give Geralt, who is away on his own business.

He arrives in Cintra about midday, hours before he is expected to perform and eager to rest his feet. The guards at the gate recognize him almost instantly, and don’t badger him much before allowing him to pass and enter the castle. He’s barely stepped into the entrance hall, discreetly wiping his traveling boots on the ornate rug in hopes of not leaving a muddy trail, when Mousesack sweeps into the room.

“Bard!” he booms, arms spread out wide to welcome Jaskier with an embrace. Jaskier wonders sometimes if Geralt has met with Mousesack at all in recent years, and if Mousesack accidently gave away that they have become friends, or if the druid is aware enough of the secrecy of Jaskier’s visits to keep quiet about it. Either way, Geralt has never mentioned or asked, so Jaskier figures he’s getting away with it in the only way that matters, meaning that there hasn’t been and hopefully will never be a messy confrontation.

“Mousesack,” Jaskier grunts, surprised by the ferocity of the other man’s hug. His ribs groan at the treatment, and Jaskier huffs out a weak laugh and pats Mousesack’s shoulder in a plea for mercy, which he is easily granted.

Mousesack takes a step back to look at him. “You’re looking well, if a bit gray.” He brushes his fingers through Jaskier’s fringe, and Jaskier makes an unhappy sound and rests his palm over the spot to hide it, pouting.

“I haven’t gone gray in the slightest!” he grumbles, halfheartedly. Mousesack laughs, the corners of his eyes wrinkling as he holds his palms up and out.

“Of course,” he allows, smile still in place. “And your knees didn’t creak on the way in, either.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Good thing it isn’t _my_ birthday we’re concerned with.” He looks around, half expecting to find Cirilla prancing around causing trouble or eavesdropping behind a tapestry, gleeful at her own ability to sneak around unnoticed. The girl has a penchant for hiding, and it has won her many a game of hide-and-seek over the years.

“True,” Mousesack sighs, resting back on his heels. “Anyway, let’s get you off your feet. I have a bit of Beauclair White in my study.”

Needing no other urging, Jaskier waves the man into motion and follows him from the entrance, chatting as they stroll about the plans for the night and catching up with each other’s exploits.

Mousesack’s station is downstairs and a bit away from the main, public areas of the castle, perhaps in case he releases a poisonous gas or makes an irritating amount of noise with his projects, or whatever he is supposed to be doing in here. The only times Jaskier has ever been in here, he was drunk, and so it is almost a new experience to nose around the trinkets and thick volumes, along with notes so complex he would need to sit down to understand the introduction of them and vials with oddly colored liquids he is tempted to smell and taste, though he imagines that would be the end of him. There is also a good layer of dust over much of it, suggesting that no one bothers or dares to pop down here to clean.

Mousesack gestures at a heavy armchair and Jaskier makes himself comfortable, watching patiently as Mousesack ducks behind various shelves and tables, all piled high with smart-looking nonsense, and emerges with an old bottle held aloft.

“Here we are,” Mousesack chimes, casting around for clean glasses. After a moment, he finds two suitable if not matching glasses- one for wine, and the other, perhaps, for chemicals- that he brings to his lips to blow dust from. Then he hurries over to sit opposite Jaskier in a stiff-backed but generously stuffed chair.

Mousesack pours the drinks and passes one over to Jaskier, who doesn’t give himself time to worry about what might have been in the glass last before taking a sip.

“Good?” Mousesack asks, and Jaskier nods his approval with a smile. It’s quite good, and it’s been long enough since Jaskier has had fancy wine that it’s all the better.

They settle into it easily. Mousesack reclines in his seat, crossing his ankles and closing his eyes to better savor his wine, and Jaskier slides low into a lazy sprawl. Jaskier is polite enough to resist the urge to kick off his boots and massage the aching soles of his feet, but only just. Once they’ve both had about half a glass, conversation resumes. Mousesack always seems hungry to hear stories of Jaskier and Geralt’s hairier adventures, perhaps bored tucked away in this castle with all it’s finery and rules. Jaskier is careful to detail what he has observed in nature, sprinkling bits of the roads and forests he has trekked through, knowing full well what the druid misses most.

Mousesack, for his part, mostly has tales of political interest, and gossip he has collected over the year and saved up, doing his best to dodge stories Jaskier might have already heard and skipping straight to juicier and wickeder goings-on. Mousesack is in the middle of a particularly scandalous rumor about a well-known and often spoken of noble in Kaedwen when they are interrupted.

There is a brief knock before the door slips open and a woman pokes her head in. Her hair is brown and rests in a sweep on her right shoulder, wisping slightly to frame her round, freckled face. From what Jaskier can see of her dress, the woman is in nice but plain, brown fabric, thin enough that she doesn’t roast as she hurries about the castle performing her duties, though her neck and cheeks are currently blotched red, and there is a deep worry line between her brows and an edge of frustration around her dark eyes.

“Sir,” says the woman. Her focus darts between Mousesack and Jaskier. Recognition jolts her eyes at almost the same moment Jaskier realizes that she is Phelle, Cirilla’s lady-in-waiting. A task no one who has met the girl would admire or envy, that’s for certain. Cirilla is not one to be wrangled.

Mousesack frowns, though whether it’s because Phelle’s presence means there is an issue with Cirilla or if he’s just unhappy to have to pause his recounting, it’s hard to say. “Yes?”

Phelle takes a deep breath. “Sorry to interrupt, it’s just that Cirilla—” she blinks “—the princess is, um…declining her party.”

A long pause. “ _Declining_ her party?”

“Yes, sir.” There is a worn look to Phelle that comes from having to chase a rambunctious, spoiled child around and then justify and explain to more powerful people why it isn’t easy as butter. Jaskier has seen her in action before, and the woman has a true talent for being quite likeable and good at her job without giving away that she isn’t necessarily talented at putting up a wall between herself and the child under her care. Meaning, Phelle and Cirilla are very close indeed, but Cirilla doesn’t take well to being ordered, and Phelle isn’t necessarily an authority figure, though she presents herself as one quite well.

Mousesack sighs, his shoulders drawing back as if in preparation for battle. Jaskier takes the last few gulps of his drink and sets the glass down quietly, readying himself to rise.

“’Declining’ how?” Mousesack asks gruffly.

Phelle looks like she might like to have her own glass of wine, and Jaskier goes ahead and pours her one, holding it out with a nod. She looks askance at Mousesack, then, apparently deciding it is worth the potential reprimand, accepts the glass with a tight-lipped smile and takes a sip before answering. “She won’t dress for the party and says she doesn’t plan to attend at all.”

“Right,” Mousesack says, pushing himself to his feet and looking wistfully at the bottle of Beauclair. “I’ll see what I can do.” He turns an amused look on Jaskier. “Are you ready to greet the princess?”

The three of them move through the castle halls, not rushing and looking, Jaskier thinks, fairly calm and serious for a troupe of adults going to confront a little girl about her own birthday. It’s funny being on this side of things, though, and Jaskier has to force himself not to grin like a jester the whole way, thinking of what they might have to expect when they reach her. When he was a boy, he would have just made himself scarce and disappeared when no one was looking, or caused such a ruckus that he could slip away while his father or nanny tried to put it all back together. Cirilla, he thinks, is smarter than him, and significantly more powerful than he ever was, and he expects great things from her. 

They approach the door to Cirilla’s chambers, standing shoulder to shoulder and bolstering themselves for an argument. Jaskier can’t stop the low chuckle that pipes from him, and sets his eyes on his own boots so he doesn’t have to face any disapproval from the others. After a beat, Mousesack raps his knuckles against the door three times in warning before pushing it open.

For a moment, Jaskier doesn’t register that the child standing before them is Cirilla, but once he does his smile stretches wide. It appears that they caught her in the midst of preparing to cart herself through the window; it is wrenched open, and she has one leg already through and a round-eyed look on her face at being interrupted.

She is in proper disguise as well, Jaskier thinks. Her pale hair is rucked up and pinned flat beneath a brown, oversized cap, and she has on clothes in varying mismatched shades of brown and black, along with a stained white shirt and heavy boots suitable for any urchin. The unique tint of her eyes, he thinks, are a bit of a giveaway, but he supposes the other children might not make the connection or else just not care enough to call her out on it. That, or they secretly relish the opportunity to show up a princess without the risk of getting in any trouble over it. 

Cirilla has told him that she is allowed to dress down and go play with the local children, finding freedom and anonymity without her title. The previous year, she even pulled out her hat and jacket so he could admire the ragged, dirty material as if it were carefully spun and luxurious silk. However, never before has he had the delight of seeing her all done up and in mid-flight.

“Cirilla!” Phelle bellows, looking about ready to wrestle the princess to the floor. Looking at her arms, Jaskier doesn’t suppose she’d have much trouble with it, if she were bold enough to try in front of Mousesack.

Jaskier follows Phelle and Mousesack through the door, which the druid calmly closes behind them. Cirilla closes her mouth, shielding herself behind a determined expression, and slowly slips her leg back into the room, tottering a bit before regaining her balance. 

“Sit down.” Mousesack stands differently in the presence of royalty; back straighter, face with a stern if affectionate edge. It is almost enough to prompt Jaskier to do the same, but he lost the willingness to do so when he was a young man surrounded by nobility and realized that there was really no point in it. He had better, more exciting ways to catch their eyes and ears, all of which involved either his mouth or dedicated misbehavior. 

Cirilla stares at him, then gives the window one final hungry look before dropping herself down onto the end of her bed, crossing her arms over her chest and jutting out her lip.

Mousesack stares at her for a beat before asking, “Why are you being difficult for Phelle?”

Phelle shoots him a look that suggests she doesn’t appreciate the implication that she is somehow failing or can’t handle a child, but quickly drops it and refocuses on the matter at hand. Jaskier bites his tongue to keep from laughing again.

Cirilla arches a brow. “It’s my birthday, I should be able to spend it however I like.”

“And you’d rather spend it covered in mud than dancing?” Jaskier can’t help but ask, drawing Cirilla’s attention to him.

Delight smothers her previous disdain, and she flits across the room with a shout. Jaskier pulls his arms apart to catch her, grunting when she hits him like a ram and nearly topples them both over. To his side, Phelle snorts into her sleeve and Mousesack lets out a dim sigh, likely rolling his eyes at the girl’s quickly shifting emotion.

“Happy birthday, Cirilla,” Jaskier says, wrapping his arms around her, cheeks stinging with the force of his smile. “Tell me, are you a Lion Cub or a Rose of Cintra today?”

Cirilla pulls away from him, eyes narrowing mischievously, but she tilts her chin up so she can look down her nose at him. The effect is quelled by his height advantage, but she makes a good show of it anyway. 

“Don’t tease,” she says.

“Right, right,” he chortles, “You are, of course, the Birthday Girl.” 

The look she gives him would set a dog’s ears back, but Jaskier’s smile doesn’t falter. Instead of snapping at him, however, she reforms her expression into a pleased grin and asks, “When did you get in?”

“Just now. I was in the middle of a very warm welcome when I heard you were trying to rid me of my favorite job.”

Her expression twitches from argumentative to uncertain, and Jaskier watches her eyes flick to Mousesack before they drop just to Jaskier’s shoulder as she says, dirge-like, “You can still sing. Just, maybe only for me. Or you can come along?”

She doesn’t seem much more convinced of the compromise than the adults in the room, and her shoulders slacken with defeat as Jaskier quirks his mouth to the side and answers, “I’m not opposed to it, Cirilla, but I do think you wandering the streets with a personal performer might give you away a bit.”

“A bit,” Mousesack mumbles, before stepping back into the conversation. “Go out and play tomorrow, if you like, but tonight you have an obligation to attend, regardless. It isn’t up for negotiation.”

Cirilla sticks out her chin. “An obligation to whom? It’s my party, what does it matter if—”

Mousesack cuts her off. “An obligation to the people who have put work into arranging the party, the people who will be employed at the party, and the many guests who expect you to pretend you’re grateful for their attendance and glad to see them.”

“None of those people actually care,” Cirilla grumbles, once more crossing her arms weakly over her chest. Jaskier aches for her, though he can’t help but imagine all the children around the Continent who would chew off their own leg to have such festivities thrown on their behalf, or just to be dressed in fine clothes and made to dance and laugh and eat in a ballroom.

“Princess,” Phelle says, closing her eyes.

Jaskier clears his throat and jumps in with, “How about if I do your hair? Hmm? Then we’ll have some time to catch up before the festivities.”

Cirilla blinks, then sends a still-contemptuous look to both Mousesack and Phelle, who looks pretty pleased that Jaskier has made the offer and is already tiptoeing her way to the door, preferring to go complete her other duties or prepare in her own way for the party, instead of rehashing this argument for another few hours. Mousesack just returns the look with a small, victorious grin.

She sighs, then turns back to Jaskier with a tight-lipped smile. “Alright,” she says, “I want to hear about your adventures, though, with all the details. Don’t make them nice!” Her expression is briefly stern until Jaskier nods agreeably, and it becomes more gleeful.

With that, Phelle and Mousesack take their leave, and Cirilla drops into the seat in front of her vanity, watching Jaskier’s reflection in the mirror as he circles around her, pretending to study her hair as if he is a masterful beautician making extravagant and complicated plans. After a moment, he begins to gently pull out the pins and unravel the bun, fluffing and shaking her hair out with his fingers once it’s all free.

“What do you want me to do with it?” he finally asks, taking a strand and pulling it up for closer inspection.

Cirilla chuckles and sits herself forward, pulling her hair from his hand. “You can just brush it,” she shrugs, “Phelle will come back later when I need to get dressed and fix it anyway.”

“Ah,” Jaskier says, relieved. “Give me the brush, then.”

She passes it to him over her shoulder before positioning herself upright in the chair, giving him full access to her tresses. He separates it into parts and then begins at the ends, only a bit dazzled by how lovely her hair truly is. So pale and soft it nearly produces its own light.

“I haven’t seen you in some time, Cirilla,” Jaskier says lightly, glancing around as if to make sure Calanthe isn’t close enough to overhear his casual address. “How have you spent the last year? Any escapades? Good trouble? Scandal?”

Cirilla smiles in a practiced way. He’s familiar with it by now; it’s mostly in her eyes, which flash like little gems, while her mouth only turns the tiniest bit up at the corners. The sort of polite look that shadows a greater enjoyment, one that royals and, in Jaskier’s youth, nobility in general, use when they’re standing before a crowd with the expectation of solemnity and grace.

“I spent the winter in Skellige,” she says, clearly pleased. “I outjumped the prince. He looked like a guppy, so surprised that a _little princess_ could show him up.”

“Ah,” Jaskier chimes, “Is this the same prince you were going to marry? Run away together? Am I remembering correctly?”

Cirilla’s grin slips away, and the look she turns on him is nearly sharp enough to make him bleed. “That was a long time ago,” she snips before tilting her chin up and very pointedly looking away from Jaskier, who only narrowly smothers his laughter.

“You’re too young for anything to be a long time ago,” he says delicately.

Cirilla pouts, then changes the subject. “I bet you’ve had much more fun than me. I’d rather hear about your travels.”

This is the complicated part, really, even after all these years. Jaskier has to dance carefully around his own tales, keeping as close to the truth as he ever does, but with the added pressure of leaving Geralt, any hint of Geralt, completely out, which is far from what he normally does. And, while Cirilla is quick to demand he doesn’t soften his stories at all, he can hardly tell her _everything_. There’s also the issue that Cirilla might hear someone singing one of his songs while she wanders around in disguise, and, being observant and clever, will piece it all together and start asking questions, namely why Jaskier has been lying this whole time and who Geralt is, anyway.

He has come prepared, however, and begins with a more recent tale about a creature living in a ragged and dirty castle deep in the woods, who was called Fanger by the locals, but born Nivellen, and was long ago turned into a horrible monster for his misdeeds. Jaskier builds the story carefully, keeping his tone even, then quickening both himself and Cirilla into excitement before once more tapering into calm. Finally, building and building and building into the final act, the last twist that leaves the princess wide-eyed and eager to hear the end. Because he is soft for her, and, ultimately, a bit of a liar, Jaskier gentles the ending into a kinder thing more akin to fairytale than life.

Once the story is done, they sit in silence for a moment, broken only when Jaskier can’t help but hum quietly to himself. A slow but cheery tune to round it all off as he works the final tangles from her hair and sets it all to rights.

Having apparently processed the story fully, Cirilla says, perturbed, “I think I’d like to live in the forest, in a house all my own.”

“I don’t know,” Jaskier hums, “I think that it would become very lonely. And wouldn’t you miss your grandparents, and Mousesack, and, of course, dear Phelle?”

Her expression stiffens. “I would miss them, but it would be worth it. I could live off the land, and have animals to keep me company. And they would visit me, obviously. You could come over as well!” Jaskier smiles and gives her shoulder a squeeze, pleased to be included in the fantasy. “Then I would be independent, and I could just do whatever I wanted. No more duties or chaperones or parties I didn’t ask for.”

Jaskier lets himself imagine it for a flash. Cirilla, living her days quietly, hair knotted away from her face and dirt beneath her fingernails. Rising early to milk the cows in her nightgown and boots, kneeling in the garden to check her vegetables. Cooking a simple dinner over the fireplace, and tottering around her daily chores and hobbies. Growing old and plump and, hopefully, content.

Or, more likely, wandering through the woods and finding mischief to keep herself from getting too bored, scraping up her elbows and bruising herself when she doesn’t mind her step. Poking bears to see how she holds up against them, moving through the trees like something grown there, sprouting from the cold soil and just plodding along.

Fantasies, Jaskier thinks, are wonderful things, but not particularly useful today.

“Cirilla,” he starts, quieting his voice. “why are you so miserable about this party?”

She huffs. “I just don’t see the point.”

“The point is to enjoy yourself, in my experience. That’s why I’m here, to give people an excuse to abandon their dull conversations for a while and move,” Jaskier chuckles.

“Is that the only reason you come?” she snaps, tugging forward hard enough that her hair is pulled roughly through his fingers and completely free from his grip.

Jaskier jolts at the abrupt change, but then relaxes his expression, meeting her reflection’s eyes as he says, “Come on, now. You must know I want to see you. That’s the reason, ultimately.”

Cirilla meets his expression for a long few seconds, jaw clenched tight in preparation to lash at him again. Then, maybe seeing his earnestness, she slackens and turns around in her chair to meet him directly. Jaskier feels himself pull slightly back at the confrontation but forces himself still, motionless and steady but for his hands, which twitch and wriggle against his will.

She says, “You’re the only one, then,” and Jaskier’s heart gives a squeeze for her.

He wants to say that she’s wrong, but he’s not sure that’s true, or a fair lie to tell. Surely, she knows better than him, and he can remember feeling the same way as a boy, looking at the guests at an event his father was holding, and smiling politely until he caused a ruckus and made it abundantly clear that he didn’t care for his position, or really for their supposed stature or reasons for attending. 

All he can make himself say, looking down into her frustrated eyes, is, “If you do seriously want to run, I’m willing to help, though I’ll lose my head for it if we’re caught.”

Cirilla startles, and seems to seriously contemplate the offer. Jaskier does the same, wondering if he would be actually prepared to do it, and then surprising himself with the certainty that he absolutely would try. She searches his expression, undoubtedly only finding the truth behind the proposal.

Then she licks her lips and grins the tiniest grin. “Maybe next year.”

Jaskier smiles back, then shrugs. “I’ll be around if you change your mind.”

He fluffs his hands through her hair a final time, tossing it around until it isn’t quite so neat, putting his work to waste. Cirilla snorts and shoves his hand away, pretending to be more bothered than she is. The moment dissolves and they shift forward together as if it never happened and is forgotten.

“That’s all I can do,” Jaskier says, rolling his shoulders as if brushing her silky hair had taken real effort. “I’ll send Phelle in, alright?”

Cirilla glances past him at the door, then tilts her head to look at herself in the mirror. Squaring her shoulders, she says, “Alright.”

He blows her a kiss. “See you tonight.”

The final hour before the start of the celebration passes with Jaskier changing into fresher, more ornate clothing and checking that his lute is in order, then heading to the dining hall to watch as various members of the staff put the finishing touches on place settings and decoration. Eventually, guests start filing in, greeting each other boisterously, as if each person is the true honored guest of the evening. As the castle fills with conversation, Jaskier and the other entertainers get to work, doing their best to perform without being overly disruptive.

Jaskier watches the moving bodies, plucking at his lute and keeping his voice low, unable to keep himself from remembering that night all those years ago, when Pavetta tore this room apart and Geralt’s life was thrown for a magical loop. Nor can he pull himself entirely into the moment and away from thoughts of Cirilla. He remembers when she was a little thing, barely able to stand let alone dance and carry on, and her parties were still this grand, and much less for her benefit. Every so often, he hears her name whispered between the guests, likely gossiping or wondering when she will appear and reveal the growing she has done since the last party.

When the time comes and Cirilla is presented, the room hushes and everyone shifts in their seat to welcome her. She stands beside Mousesack at the head of the room, looking regal for someone so small, and a man approaches from the side to raise his voice and announce her as, “Princess Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon.”

The guests and rise and clap as if her arrival is part of a grand performance, and Jaskier watches as she grits her teeth into a sneer.

Her pale hair is long enough to drape over the front of her dress, covering up the careful embroidery, though he can still see delicate outlines of golden birds, wings spread and beaks turned upward, taking flight. The fabric of the gown is an eggshell blue, which makes her hair look even brighter, like fine, careless clouds on a cheerful day, or fog rising from a lake in the early morning. There is a small tiara perched atop her waves, with little gems studded throughout.

Jaskier swallows and can’t make himself cheer, feeling little more than sad affection and pointless compassion. 

Once they feel they’ve done a good and proper job of acknowledging Cirilla, the guests return to their own conversations, filling the air with enjoyment and selfish delight. Jaskier’s fingers trip over the notes, but he nudges himself back into professionalism and continues on, making sure the send Cirilla periodic smiles, hoping to somehow bolster her mood and perhaps move her to meet the others in dance.

Instead, she shoves food around her plate and keeps her eyes stubbornly down, speaking under her breath to her grandparents, each of them keeping their lips almost still, and their expressions trained into nonchalance, though Jaskier suspects they are arguing. The evening tapers into night, and the party seems to thrive, expanding out into the halls and then into the cool night air, until there are voices all around, becoming inescapable.

Though it seems impossible, the festivities do slow, drawing in to hear as Eist gives a few tipsy words for his granddaughter, slightly slurred but saturated with love. Cirilla’s cheeks round with genuine glee as the king rambles on over childhood stories, bleeding into a few sappy comments about what an amazing woman she is becoming. The queen’s smile is a tad more exasperated, but similarly affectionate. 

Eist is dragged back down to his seat, where he tumbles forward to plant a kiss on Cirilla’s cheek, which she rubs off with the back of her hand, laughing and saying something not quite audible to the room at large. Then Calanthe stands, looking no worse for wear, and speaks as well in her own brash way, delivering her love through a well-worded speech that sends the room into riotous cheers, as if they all understand and relate to her love of the princess.

While some seem unable or unwilling to part with their seats, a few face-down and slobbering on the table, others make their way from the dining hall, either to make their leave or to find their rooms. Jaskier and the other performers continue on until they are waved off, and then they drop to their chairs with exhausted huffs and begin picking at leftover food and drink.

Jaskier is dozing, resting his cheek in his hand and half-listening to whatever the woman he thinks might have been juggling various balls and kitchen instruments and whatever else the crowd tossed her way earlier is saying.

The juggler’s voice abruptly cuts out, and Jaskier blinks his eyes open to ask what’s the matter when he follows the curve of a gown up to meet Cirilla’s eyes.

“’Lo,” he mumbles, stretching upwards and willing himself back awake.

Cirilla studies him, tilting her head to the side and taking in the state of him. Her eyes twinkle, and she asks, “Why don’t you go to sleep, if you’re that tired?”

“Well,” he says through a yawn, “I was learning the juggler’s craft a moment ago. And I didn’t want to miss dinner, you know.”

She looks at him skeptically, then nods. “Will you still be here in the morning?”

Jaskier considers. “I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

“You’re always welcome,” she says, rolling her eyes. 

He supposes that is technically true, though he suspects that Calanthe herself would eventually figure out that he was hanging around and send him on his way, either out of Cintra, to the dungeons, or straight to hell.

“I’ll probably leave early. Or, whatever feels early once I’ve woken up and recovered.”

Cirilla looks slightly disappointed, but covers it as well as any child can, nodding and turning her eyes away. “I understand. You probably have lots of things to go do.”

Jaskier nods noncommittally, and then doesn’t stop himself from whispering, “My offer still stands for next year, if you decide you actually want to run away.”

“I’ll think about it,” she says, with perfect seriousness.

Jaskier smiles, then bows forward to plant a kiss to the top of her head, spiking his chin with the point of her tiara. Cirilla pulls a face and corrects it, making sure it stays balanced atop her hair.

“Goodnight, Cirilla.”

“Goodnight, Jaskier.”

And then he goes, feeling each step away from her in the pit of his stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter used to be something completely different (hence why it isn't as closely edited...sorry for any mistakes). It was supposed to be a version of the story A Grain of Truth from The Last Wish. Then I heard that the show would be telling that story and I decided it would be nice to have a part here where Jaskier interacts with Ciri. If anyone is interested in reading the old version of this chapter, I could post it separately. Let me know.


	29. Mortality

If Jaskier had stayed at Lettenhove or even with the Countess de Stael, he would not be considered old. The lifespan of a noble is usually long, barring accidents or murder, and he would probably be healthy as a horse and looking forward to many more decades of fun and splendor. But Jaskier has not lived the life of a noble. He also hasn’t lived the life of a farmer, who often look older than they actually are and wear their bodies down with long hours of work but also have steady meals and a regular place to land.

Jaskier has lived the life of a vagabond. He’s spent most of his days walking down hardpacked dirt roads or eating tavern food, sleeping in a bedroll, running towards and then away from monsters and, on a few occasions, getting very close to a premature death.

So, not yet forty, Jaskier isn’t really sure where he sits on the spectrum. He’s not old, certainly, but he’s not young either. He aches and he’s not quite as springy as he used to be. He isn’t creased and wrinkled, moreover, which is impressive for someone who spends so much time under the sun and has never been too keen to keep his face expressionless.

So maybe he isn’t so concerned about dying. The real worry is how much longer he can keep this up- this transitive, wandering, exciting lifestyle- and how much longer Geralt will have him. What he’s supposed to do when he can’t go with Geralt anymore, and whether or not Geralt will still make time to come see him wherever Jaskier’s landed when he’s left behind.

He’ll probably go to Oxenfurt. Take up that vague position they’re always waving in front of his nose, if it’s still on the table. Teach young people the way he was taught, watch them go off to live their dreams, answer questions about his glory days with The White Wolf Witcher Geralt of Rivia, who will probably still be adventuring far away. Have a little house full of little things, cozy and tidy and perfectly simple. A routine that suits him, a steady income with money to spare on frivolities and the nonsense he loves. Good sleep, good food, good wine. 

And he’ll be alone.

That won’t be for a few decades yet, he thinks. He’s seen some pretty old vagabonds. Rusty folk who move slowly down the many winding paths, threadbare and croaky, sometimes smiling but oftentimes just worn down. But they’re also often worse off than Jaskier, who rarely hurts for coin nowadays. And it’s not like he’s the one fighting monsters. When he can’t walk anymore, he’ll suck it up and buy a horse, which he really should have done a long time ago but it’s possible he just lost track of the time. He can still stay out of the way as well as he ever has, and he can keep Geralt company. Geralt has never commented on his lifespan before so it’s unlikely he ever will, as long as Jaskier doesn’t slow him down or drop in the middle of the road.

Not pressing matters, but ones that have been weighing on him lately.

They’re in a tavern, sitting at a corner table and idly listening to the performing bard as he tunes his lute and prepares to sing. He’s no good, but Jaskier isn’t in the mood to make something of it, though he flinches as the man strums his fingers over the first string and it twinkles miserably. Poor fool hasn’t cared for the instrument, and probably hasn’t realized yet that it’ll never sound quite right. Meanwhile, Geralt works through a big slab of meat he splurged on and Jaskier sips at a drink, watching his friend chew.

The song starts. Morose. Bad choice for a tavern, especially this late in the afternoon.

To distract himself, Jaskier dips his finger into his ale and watches it drip off the tip of his finger, quivering anxiously before finally letting go. Absently, he asks, “Do you know how old I am?”

Geralt furrows his brows. Chews. Does some mental math, swallows, and looks all too pleased with himself when he answers, “Late thirties.” Jaskier takes another sip and nods, smiling at how pleased Geralt looks at his own ability to keep track, like he’s just passed a test. Geralt goes back to his meal.

Jaskier doesn’t go on to say _I’m getting older_ or _I’ve seen men my age drop dead in fields_ , though it’s definitely weighing on the end of his tongue. Instead, horribly, he says, “When I’m not around, do you miss me?”

Geralt stares at him, stops eating, and doesn’t respond for a long time. His eyes are liquid gold and burning, flickering as he turns the question over. Jaskier’s throat tightens and he can’t look away from Geralt, can’t make himself interrupt and save them both from the answer.

Finally, Geralt clears his throat and hunches forward in his seat, focusing on his meal so he doesn’t have to look at Jaskier while he speaks. Gently, he says, “It’s quieter,” and maybe he’s teasing, or just being mean, but he says it so softly, so carefully, that Jaskier thinks he means something else.

Then, because he has very little control over his own tongue, because he’s a glutton for punishment with scant sense and self-preservation, and because he’s a bit of a bastard, Jaskier says, “I suppose that from your perspective our time together has been brief. If I was suddenly gone, it would be small, in the grand scheme.”

Geralt’s jaw tightens. He tilts his head up, shyness vanished. Those eyes, _those eyes_. “What are you talking about?”

“Just the obvious,” Jaskier answers with a shrug, quickly taking another gulp of ale and deeply regretting opening up this line of conversation. Silly. Self-indulgent. Unkind.

A slow inhale, and Geralt holds it. One beat, two. Then breathes out slow. Garnering his patience, tampering frustration. It’s probably more than Jaskier deserves, but he appreciates it all the same. “It doesn’t seem obvious to me.”

“Well,” Jaskier moves his mug around, as if it’s position on the table makes any difference. It leaves a wet smear in its wake, and he fights the urge to mop it away with his sleeve. Bad habit to pick up. His tongue darts out, nervous, and his voice is clipped when he continues, “You’re more important to me than I am to you. That’s all.”

“You say that like…I don’t—” Geralt’s shoulders are wound tight, like a spring about to be sprung, like a button about to pop. The words are getting caught up in his teeth and Jaskier feels guilty but also strangely pleased at how affected the witcher is, for all he claims to be uncaring.

Perhaps it is this shameful gratification that keeps him talking when he knows he should change the subject. “It’s just that you have forever and I don’t”

Geralt scoffs. “I don’t have forever.”

That’s true. Ugly and gross and true. There are scars littering his body to prove it, a story behind each one, some that he witnessed firsthand. 

Jaskier blinks away flashing thoughts of blood and trembling hands, swallows ale to burn away the memory of that sharp, coppery scent. Pushes back. “You have a greater portion of it than I do.”

Geralt leans back, looking all the world like a child being forced to eat his vegetables. Did anyone ever make Geralt eat his vegetables? Had Geralt been the kind of child to fuss about such things, or was he neat and well-behaved? Do witchers care about plates licked clean, and were they gentle in this kind of lesson, or harsh as in everything else? If Jaskier asked, would Geralt remember? Would he answer?

Gruffly, Geralt says, “Jaskier.”

“I’m not complaining.”

“Are you ill?”

Jaskier blinks. Geralt is looking at him hard, his knuckles are white on his fork. And he’s sniffing, like he’ll be able to smell disease on Jaskier. He probably could.

“No,” Jaskier says, gentling his voice and smiling. “I’m not ill. Just morose.”

Geralt’s expression remains pinched, searching. “Why?”

Jaskier shakes his head. “It’s silly. I’ll be over it by morning. You know how I get. Something about being an artist, I think.” Geralt stares at him, but drops it.

Eventually they finish their meals and Jaskier thinks about finding some company to cheer himself up but is suddenly exhausted and not in the mood. Instead, he starts towards their room. Geralt follows silently, like a shadow, only ever a few steps behind. To an outsider, this must look dangerous. Or romantic. Jaskier’s never sure what they look like to other people.

They go to the room and Jaskier rubs his eyes until his vision is filtered through green and purple sparks. He stretches, twisting his back this way and that until it pops satisfactorily. Crossing to the bed, he starts to speak but is cut off when Geralt falls in behind him, right on his heels, and then continues to press forward when Jaskier halts.

His broad chest blankets Jaskier’s back, seeping warmth through their layers, and his muscled arms swing down and around, looping Jaskier in and pulling him closer. Jaskier grunts but doesn’t squirm away, mesmerized by the huff of Geralt’s breath in his ear and stunned by the enigmatic gesture. The man is hugging him. No blood, no stones, no painful chill. Jaskier is pretty confident Geralt hasn’t initiated a hug in all their twenty years.

He stiffens, his first thought that someone else must be in the room and that Geralt is about to throw him out of the way. But Geralt exhales against his ear again, making the bard shiver, and whispers, “Don’t talk like that.”

Then releases him.

For a moment, Jaskier doesn’t move. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t move. Then he straightens, already missing the feel of Geralt against him, the easy touch and comfortable heat. Trying to arrange some composure, Jaskier slowly turns to meet Geralt’s eyes.

Jaskier must be gawping because Geralt snorts. Still, he looks embarrassed and hastily focuses his attention on his swords, putting more effort into finding a place to rest them than is necessary, as he always puts them within reach of where he is sleeping. Jaskier fidgets, shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Remembers that he is tired. Was tired. Needs to go to sleep.

He manages to organize himself, blinking hard for a moment and then rolling his eyes at his own uncharacteristic awkwardness. This has never been hard for him. Why act so silly over it now? He cants his hip, stepping up to Geralt and spreading his arms wide as he says, “Come here you oaf,” and tugs Geralt around to get a proper hug.

Geralt is not good at hugs, never really relaxing into them and uncertain how hard he’s supposed to hold on, sometimes bordering on squeezing a bit painfully or entirely too loose. But Jaskier presses them together, resting his chin on Geralt’s shoulder and letting the witcher run his nose along his throat.

He gets his fill and then slides back, keeping his hands on Geralt’s shoulders so his can lean forward one more time and plant a kiss on his stubbly cheek. Then he laughs and does it again because he likes the face Geralt makes. Shocked wide eyes, but happy too. The corners of Geralt’s mouth tick up, and he doesn’t shove Jaskier away, lets him do it one more time before they separate. 

Jaskier releases Geralt. “I’m still a young man, you know. We have plenty of time. As long as you’ll have me.” And he pointedly ignores how Geralt’s smile twists into something painful before he abruptly pulls away, turning his back to Jaskier.


	30. Wanting

Sometimes Jaskier thinks about Geralt running away with him. Sometimes he follows behind the witcher and thinks about Geralt saying that witchers don’t retire, that he doesn’t want anything or anybody, that this is going to end in violence. And in the pit of his heart, Jaskier knows that isn’t right. Because Geralt is not what he’s supposed to be; twenty-two years have taught Jaskier that. He’s a shithead and a dufus but he’s also good and gentle.

  
Sometimes Jaskier thinks about what pleases him, what Geralt wants, what a witcher could want. He thinks about going somewhere together, where neither of them has to work, where Jaskier can sing for the pleasure of making music, can work a crowd for fun without thinking about how much coin he’ll have at the end of the night. He imagines taking a break, Geralt putting down his swords, leaving his armor behind and just existing peacefully for a while.

  
Sometimes in these fantasies it’s just Jaskier and Geralt, other times it’s just Geralt and Yennefer and Jaskier leaves them together, or else they all three find a way to make peace. Sometimes he imagines Cirilla is there. She spends so much time in her castle, or in faraway Skellige, he likes to imagine her out with them in the sun, with miles and miles in front of them, duty whisked off her shoulders.

  
Sometimes he thinks it could really happen. In the quiet moments, or when Geralt laughs that rare, full laugh like low thunder. When Geralt closes his eyes and listens to Jaskier play his lute, or that first moment when he sees Yennefer and his shoulders relax as if he’s just been waiting this whole time.

But then Geralt says “not friends,” or flicks blood off his sword like a reflex, Yennefer says something particularly venomous, the Child Surprise remains unclaimed, or Jaskier aches from walking and walking and walking.

  
He doesn’t regret any of it, no matter how shitty it can feel at times, because he does love this life. Absolutely and unendingly. This is the life he wants, even if it isn’t everything he’s always wanted. If he died tomorrow it would be with a sense of accomplishment, if not with an unaching heart. He’s no fool, and there are many things he wants that he knows he can’t have. And that’s fine. He’s old enough to understand that.

  
If he can help it, this will be his life for many years to come.

  
And then, of course, the dragon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that's the end of this story and the first part of this series! I'll post the next installment soon, I just have to do a final read of it. It's significantly shorter than this one.  
> I will also post my version of A Grain of Truth in the next few days, probably as part of this series. There are going to be seven stories in the series altogether, three of them occurring simultaneously, and I've only written four to completion, so my posting schedule will slow down eventually.  
> Thanks to everyone for reading and being so nice!

**Author's Note:**

> This story is technically fully written, but I'm planning to post two chapters a week so I can do a quick reread of each part and buy myself some time to get ahead on the next stories. I just started a new job and it's slowed me down a bit.


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